Team Bonding
by msgenevieve447
Summary: There's team bonding, and then there's Team Bonding. Captain Swan AU in which there is laser tag, team bonding and a kiss. Oh, and don't forget the aftermath. (COMPLETE: Thank you all so much for your readership and your comments and your encouragement. So grateful for it all, and this wouldn't have been as much fun without you!)
1. Chapter 1

Emma spins on her heel and dives behind the nearest shelter, cursing the white collar executive who first thought of the phrase 'team bonding'. As she huddles behind the fake galvanized trash can, she directs even more curses in the direction of her Managing Partner who, after taking his team out for drinks to celebrate a trial win, decided to then strong-arm them into a spontaneous evening of indoor laser tag.

Doing anything that requires this level of coordination after consuming half a bottle of red wine is not for the faint-hearted, not to mention her extremely non-sensible pair of heels. Her head and her feet are not going to be her friends in the morning.

Not only that, this is not exactly the group of people with whom she'd normally chose to spend a Friday night. Her team is fine, great even, but there are a few extra hangers-on, favourites of the boss, and she's not sure she's entirely comfortable hurtling around in the dark with some of them, especially dressed in her best 'impress the judge' black suit and killer heels with a serious alcohol buzz going on.

Especially him -

_No_. She cuts off her own thought. She is _not_ going to think about the annoyingly good-looking new senior associate, the wunderkind from London who is now heading up their Maritime Law division. Not going to think about how he seems to have already charmed every single female in the firm without once throwing a 'good morning' _her_ way. And she's definitely not going to think about how she's caught him watching her more than once, or the way that her pit of her stomach curls up like old parchment set on fire whenever their eyes meet.

He's here somewhere, at the express invitation of the boss no less, and she smiles at the thought that she might be the one to shoot him out of the game. Not, she thinks as she adjusts the ridiculous fluoro flashing vest she's got strapped over her red blouse, that she wants him to notice her. Because that would mean that she's noticed _him_, and she's determined not to notice him, because he embodies everything she's pretty sure she doesn't want in a man. Unless (if the whispers from said females in the firm can be believed) she was just looking for a good fu –

High-pitched shrieking laughter (and a whole lot of swearing) to her left almost splits her eardrum, the flashing lights of two of her colleague's vests almost blinding her in the near-darkness. Emma crouches lower behind the trash can, trying to work out if they are friend or foe. They had split into teams at the start of this ridiculous game, but Emma can't tell who was who in the darkness. Come to think of it, she can't actually remember who's on her team.

"There's Emma!" The booming (and more than a little tipsy) voice of her boss' personal assistant breaks through the madness of buzzing lasers. "Get her!"

"Shit!" With a speed she didn't realise she could muster in this outfit, Emma is on her feet and darting to her right before her pursuers can aim a single shot. She has no idea where she's headed, only that she can't bear to 'die' after only ten minutes. Clutching her weapon tightly, she spins and fires wildly behind her, grinning as she hears the 'wah wah' sound of her colleagues' vests being hit. Maybe she's not so bad at this thing after all-

She's barely had two seconds to gloat when two vaguely familiar figures appear to her left and, judging from the way they're raising their laser guns, they're not on her team either. "Any last words, Swan?"

"Bite me!" She keeps running, ducking around corners and behind low walls, adrenaline pumping in a way she hasn't felt in the longest time (not even during the most strenuous of boxing classes) until she comes to a dead end and knows she's toast.

An arm snakes out of nowhere, a hand wrapping itself around her elbow and pulling her into the dark shadows. She splutters, too out of breath to protest, and a few seconds later she's wedged in a narrow space between two mock shelters, hidden from even the most ardent of pursuers. She's also wedged against a decidedly warm, definitely male body, and turns to read them the riot act, because this is just not something that's happening tonight.

She turns to the owner of the arm and the hand (which is still wrapped around her elbow) and opens her mouth, but her indignant, "what the hell?" dies on her lips, because Killian Jones is grinning at her, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.

"I was hoping it'd be you."

Emma stares at him, painfully aware of the somersaulting butterflies that have just taken flight in her belly. He's wearing his usual black shirt, but he's lost the tie (and several buttons as well, it seems). His dark hair is tousled, his forehead and the long line of his tanned throat gleaming lightly with perspiration. He looks mad, bad and dangerous to know, to coin a phrase, and Emma feels a violent quiver in her knees and several other interesting places, rendering her speechless.

Well, _shit_.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." He shifts against her (oh, this is not happening) trying to find some space between them, then holds out his hand. "Killian Jones."

She looks at his hand, then back up at his face. "I know."

If her refusal to shake his hand shakes his confidence, it doesn't show. If anything, he only seems more pleased with himself. "My reputation precedes me, I take it?"

She's had too much wine to have this conversation. She's definitely had too much wine to be this close to him. She goes to step out into the corridor, then shrinks back at the sound of pounding feet and her name being called. "If you can call being gossiped about by the secretaries over the photocopier _preceding you_, then yes," she whispers back to him in a low hiss.

He grins at her, white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness. "Careful, Swan." The way his accent lilts over her name shouldn't make her feel as though she's wearing too many clothes, but that's exactly what it does. "To the untrained ear, you might come across as a tad envious."

"Didn't realise you knew my name, _Jones_." She sucks in a deep breath, trying to put some space between them, but all it does is fill her senses with the smell of his aftershave, something warm and spicy that probably cost more than her shoes.

"Emma Swan, rising star of White and Mills?" His knee bumps against her as he leans closer, filling the space between them with his gleaming smile and glittering blue eyes. "I've heard all about you, love."

"_Love_? Seriously?" She gives him the best glare she manage, trying to summon up every available ounce of outrage. "This is New York, Jones, not Old Blighty, and you'd better get used to women not falling for that tired old routine."

To her complete and utter annoyance, her whispered tirade only makes his smile widen. "Oh, you're a tough lass, aren't you?"

She should be furious. She should tell him to fuck off and leave her alone. But the words don't come and the only refuge she has is escape. She doesn't care if she'll be lasered to death as soon as she steps out into the open, she just needs to get away from Killian Jones and his lush mouth and laughing eyes. Shoving her shoulder hard against his, she tries to move past him. "Well, it's been a real treat, but I'm-"

Her right stiletto, such a good wardrobe choice at seven o'clock this morning, catches on the laces of his left shoe, and she stumbles into him, pushing him back against the wall behind him. She hears him inhale a sharp breath, then she hears him drop his laser gun, his hands coming up to rest lightly on her hips. She's pressed against him from shoulder to thigh, and she should be scrambling away from him and beating a hasty retreat, but her pulse is humming in her ears and all she can think is that she wants to kiss that smirk right off his mouth.

It seems she's not alone in the impulse. In the near-darkness, his gaze is scorching over her face, lingering on her mouth. "You'll die out there, Swan."

Her laser vest suddenly feels way too tight, making it hard to breathe. She barely knows him, and she has to work with him, and this is such a bad idea. So why isn't she leaving? "I'll take my chances."

He drops his hands from her hips, but he doesn't step away. "What are you doing after this?"

"Going home." She licks her lips, a nervous gesture she's never been able to control, and his eyes darken. "Alone."

"That sounds like a terribly dull plan." He dips his head, his lips almost brushing her ear. "Let me buy a drink instead."

Goosebumps are dancing down her spine and her arms. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I beg to differ." Leaning back, his gaze locks with hers. "In fact, I think it's the best idea I've had in a long time."

The nearby sound of pounding feet and laughter suddenly invades their hiding place, and she doesn't know if she's relieved or disappointed. Killian looks over his shoulder, then back at her. Before she can move, speak or even guess at his intent, his hands are cupping her face. "A kiss before dying, my lady?"

Then he's kissing her, his mouth gentle and warm and devastating, tasting of mint and top-shelf rum and she's sinking into him, her hands splayed awkwardly across his laser vest. Without thinking, without hesitation, she opens her mouth to kiss him back with a hunger she hasn't felt for a very long time, letting his tongue sweep across her lips to tangle with hers. A rough groan rumbles deep in his chest, and she feels an answering spasm of desire shoot through her. _Jesus, what was happening here? _

"Ha!" A hail of laser sound effects and flashing lights pierce the darkness around them, and she jerks away, her heart hammering, belatedly recognising one of the junior associates from her team. "Two kills with one shot! Woohoo!"

Her face burning, Emma can't think of a single comeback, but it seems she doesn't have to.

"Nice work, lad. A noble kill worthy of a true warrior." Killian Jones claps the other man on the shoulder, a gesture that turns into a gentle but pointed shove. Not that the guy notices; he's too busy celebrating by running back down the corridor, leaving them alone once more.

"Now then, Swan." He smiles at her, a slow, knowing curving of lips that are still wearing the faintest trace of her lip gloss, and she feels her knees once again turn to water. "Care to continue our team bonding over that drink?"


	2. Chapter 2

Rolling over, Killian Jones buries his face into the depths of his pillow with a groan. His bedroom is flooded with an obscene amount of sunlight, informing him that he neglected to close the blinds last night. He's usually above those kinds of rookie mistakes, he thinks hazily, closing his eyes tighter against the unpleasant thrum of his pulse in his temples. Then again, last night he'd been more drunk than he'd been in quite a while, which was very drunk indeed.

Aside from the dreadful sunlight, there's something else bothering him, he realises slowly. Something else that's not sitting comfortably in his throbbing head this morning, and it's only when he grimaces at the stale taste of far too many drinks on his tongue that he remembers exactly what's troubling him.

He rolls onto his back, one hand over his eyes in a vain attempt to ward off the evils of the morning sun as he searches through his memories of last night. Ah, of course. Now he remembers.

Emma Swan had kissed the living daylights out of him, then turned him down flat.

Swearing under his breath, he pinches the bridge of his nose, wondering if he should just smother himself with the pillow and be done with it, because he couldn't have mucked things up more if he'd tried.

* * *

_"__Now then, Swan." To his relief, he sounds like his usual self. No sign of the fact that his heart is currently doing a rhumba against his sternum or he's in possession of a raging erection that would put his sixteen year-old self to shame. "Care to continue our team bonding over that drink?"_

_She stares at him, her dark eyelashes fluttering, then she shakes her head. "Sorry, I can't." Hers hands are still on his chest, but now they're pushing against him, not clutching at the front of his ridiculous laser tag vest. "I'm still going home." She takes a step back, her gaze sliding away from his, her lovely face flushed. "Alone."_

_He can still taste her on his tongue, and it takes a few seconds for this new turn of events to sink in. "But, I thought-" He breaks off, because he sounds exactly the type of smugly entitled git he always makes an effort not to be. It's too late, though, because he can tell by her expression that she's already decided exactly the same thing._

_"__You thought what?" Her voice _had_ been deliciously unsteady, but now she seems to have recovered quite nicely from their fleeting dalliance, and he sees a flash of ire in those bright green eyes. "That just because I kissed you it was all systems go?"_

_"__Can you blame me?" Ah, there was the smug git again, he thinks with dismay. Apparently this woman has the effect of loosening his tongue in every possible way, including the worst. "It _was _quite a kiss, Swan," he adds quickly, and even in the half-light, he can see she's blushing. _

_Blushing but, as it turns out, still not budging. Her smile is more of a sneer, but God help him, all it does is make he want to kiss her again._ _"It's late, I'm tired, and we've both been drinking. Good kiss or not, it's still not a good idea, and you know it."_

_He does, of course, which only makes things worse, but he can't bring himself to believe this thing between them - whatever it is - is over before it's even had a chance to start. "Tomorrow night, perhaps?"_

_She takes another step back, her words now tumbling over themselves. "What, so I can finally contribute to your not-so-secret admirers' club at the office on Monday?"_

_He manages not to smile. "As I said before, love, you'd want to be careful with that whole sounding jealous thing." _

_Her gaze narrows, and he has the sudden feeling that he should brace himself. "And you'd want to get over yourself, _mate_," she tosses back at him in a mocking sing-song voice. "It was just a kiss." She pauses, as if for effect, then goes for the jugular (sadly, only in the metaphorical sense.) "And I hate to break it to you, but I've had better."_

_Filled with equal amounts admiration and embarrassment, he opens his mouth to speak - or apologise or grovel or beg - he honestly no longer knows what the fuck he's doing here. "Swan, I-"_

_It's too late, because with dismissive flick of her hand, a swish of her hair and a sway of her hips, she's gone._

* * *

Like a stunned mullet, he'd stood in that bloody laser tag room for a good two minutes after she'd left, feeling confused, annoyed (yes, at her as well as himself, he's the first to admit he's no saint) and as randy as a sailor in port after a long haul at sea, all of which he promptly attempted to drown with overpriced booze. Which, of course, is why he's now lying alone in his bed with a hangover that would kill a small pony and the distinct feeling he's ruined his chances with Emma Swan before he could even _begin_trying to impress her.

Oh, he'd made an impression on her alright, he thinks darkly as he throws back the covers and sits on the edge of his bed, his aching head cradled in his hands. Too bad it was the exact opposite of the one he'd wanted to make from the first moment he'd seen her in the hallways of Mills and White. Rubbing his temples, he heaves a sigh and drags himself to his feet. _Right, _he tells himself, _hot shower, hot coffee, then spend the weekend definitely not thinking about how bloody fantastic it had been to kiss Emma Swan._

Scowling at his reflection in the bathroom mirror (he's perversely pleased he looks as rough as he feels) he touches his lips with his fingertips, as if trying to resurrect the taste of her, and sighs again. The first two, at least, he can manage, but the third is an entirely different kettle of fish.

Turning the water up as hot as his skin will tolerate, he closes his eyes and starts counting the hours until Monday morning. Emma Swan might be determined to tell herself that their kiss was just a kiss, but he'd tasted her soft moan, felt the shudder that had rippled through her. _What he needs,_he decides as the hot water begins to work its magic on his aching skull, _is to make a watertight counter-claim._ Luckily for him, he knows just the man for the job.

* * *

He'd noticed her on his very first day.

Dutifully trailing the Health and Safety officer as part of his orientation, they'd walked through the Family Law department, where he'd overhead a female staffer having an extremely terse telephone conversation with what he could only assume was the opposition legal counsel. As his tour guide had helpfully pointed out the fire exits on that floor, he'd shamelessly tuned her out and eavesdropped on quite a different voice, vastly entertained by the colourful turn of phrase and sheer effrontery he was hearing.

To his disappointment, he'd been ushered away to continue his orientation - at the height of the unseen woman's verbal evisceration of her opponent, no less - and he hadn't had the chance to lay eyes on the voice's owner. That afternoon, walking towards the elevator, he'd heard it again, only this time the topic of conversation was movies and food. He'd turned, then blinked, because surely the green-eyed blonde who was chatting idly with a colleague about all movies being Hollywood remakes (and who also looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth) wasn't the same woman who'd threatened her opposing counsel so thoroughly?

Apparently, it was. He later discovered that her name was Emma Swan, she was an associate in the Family Law team and she was officially destined for Big Things, according to the office rumour mill. That first day, though, he's quite sure he'd looked at her as a man crawling through the desert might gaze upon an oasis, and he had no bloody idea why. After all, he'd always liked brunettes. For Emma Swan, though, he'd been more than prepared to expand his horizons. That face and body combined with that razor-sharp brain - he'd have to be blind not to appreciate her charms.

Sadly, he also soon discovered that it didn't matter a whit what _his_preferences were, because as far as Emma Swan was concerned, he didn't exist. Or, put more simply, she was aware of his existence, she just didn't care. She looked right through him whenever their paths crossed, and seemed to make a point of never once getting within conversational distance. At first he found it intriguing, then infuriating, then both things at once. He'd never been one to indulge in false modesty, and the fact that a woman remained so steadfastly stony-faced in his presence was something of a novelty. Still, he liked a challenge, and he suspected that winning Emma Swan's favour would be well worth the effort.

Then, of course, like an idiot, he'd slept with that red-haired secretary from her team.

Nothing too scandalous or shocking in that, of course - they'd both been single adults who'd decided to have a little mutual fun one night after few shared drinks, no strings attached - but that particular tidbit of gossip had burnt through the firm like a proverbial firestorm. The next time he'd run into the lovely Emma Swan in the hallway, she hadn't looked right thought him. Instead, she'd looked at him as though he'd just confirmed all her worst opinions of him, _then_ looked right through him.

Not his finest hour, he has to admit, and late on Friday afternoon when he'd spied her name amongst the ranks of those unfortunate enough to be corralled into playing that preposterous laser game, he couldn't agree to join in fast enough. He'd lost sight of her as soon as the game had begun, much to his disappointment, but then she'd suddenly appeared in front of him like a vision and lurched into his arms. He'd kissed her, she'd kissed him back, and now it's Sunday afternoon and he's lying on his couch, trying to find the energy to do something other than replay that damned kiss over and over again in his head, just like he had all Saturday and Saturday night. Apart from two desultory forays into the street to buy coffee from the café underneath his apartment block, he's done nothing all weekend but surf the internet (without enthusiasm) and play video games (badly) and remind himself of everything he _should_ have said to Emma Swan but didn't.

Just after three o'clock, he gives himself a mental slap on the back of the head and climbs off the couch. He changes his threadbare t-shirt and jeans for a less threadbare set, then picks up his car keys. If he's not going to get anything done at home, he may as well get something done at the office. He'd knocked off early on Friday, and while he might still be paying for that decision on a personal level, at least he can get a head start on Monday's workload.

The office is quiet, the phones silent as the after-hours voicemail does its magic, and he feels the tension in his shoulders finally begin to relax. At least here, where it's just him and the work he does best, he doesn't second guess himself.

When he hears the sound of someone making use of the best photocopier on the floor, he almost doesn't bother investigating. He'd be surprised if he was the only person working this afternoon, but something makes him trudge down the hallway, his trainers silent on the thick carpet. When he reaches the copy room, his heart both sinks and does an odd little jig, because he'd know that blonde ponytail anywhere. He allows himself a moment's grace to appreciate the novelty of seeing her in casual dress - her lovely arse is even more lovely when it's clad in denim, it seems – then clears his throat. "Having a good weekend, Swan?"

"Shit." The ponytail in question curls gracefully through the air as its owner spins around, one hand pressed flat on her chest, her eyes wide. "You scared the_ hell _out of me."

"My apologies, lass." He does his best not to notice that her green sweater is rather fitted and shows more of her breasts than any of her sombre work suits ever have. She's not wearing any makeup, and the lips that have haunted his thoughts for two days (since his first day, to be honest) are even more tempting in their natural state. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

Her answer is a scowl and a shake of her head as she goes back to whatever it is that she's doing. "Don't let me keep you," she finally tosses over her shoulder, and he frowns, because he can't remember the last time he saw one of the matrimonial lawyers working on a weekend.

"What's got you in the office on a Sunday?"

She hesitates, as if she's afraid to encourage him, then sighs loudly. "The other side served an amended affidavit from the husband at the eleventh hour on Friday. I was at court all day and the secretary who accepted the service didn't bother letting me know." She darts him a dark glance, and he suspects he know exactly which secretary she's talking about. _Bugger. "_So we've got a custody hearing at nine tomorrow morning and I've got a-," she glares at the paperwork scattered on the worktop to her left, "forty-seven page affidavit to get through, then a response to draft, and my partner is in the fucking Hamptons this weekend, so then I have to email everything to her and sit around on my ass waiting for her to finish tanning by the pool so she can tell me everything I've done wrong, then I get to amend our client's application until my eyeballs fall out of my head."

He leans against the doorframe, knowing he's about to be rather unconventional, but he's never let that stop him before. "Need a hand?"

She stares at him. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

_She's even more lovely when she's annoyed with him_, he decides. "I'm quite serious, love."

A frown tugs at her eyebrows. "Don't call me love," she mutters, but the rebuke is almost automatic, and he grins as he steps into the copy room, palms up in supplication.

"Sorry, darling."

"Really?" She shakes her head again, but not before he catches the faintest hint of a smile touching her lips. "I'm sure you've got your own work to do."

"Actually, no." He strolls into the copy room, keeping his hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans, lest he do something untoward like touch her. "Nothing that can't wait, at least."

He sees the hesitation in her eyes. "You'd really spend your Sunday afternoon crosschecking boring as hell affidavits to help me out?"

"I would." The suspicion in her eyes stings more than he cares to admit._"_Does that surprise you?"

She shrugs, a reluctant smile curving her mouth. "A little."

He grins. "Last week I spent two hours trying to explain to one of our clients that the Limitation of Liability Act didn't have anything to do with the actual _sinking_ of the Titanic." She laughs at that, actually laughs, and warmth spreads through him at the sound of it. "Trust me, I'm all too familiar with boring."

She eyes him for another moment, then pats the top of the photocopier. "You know how to drive this beast?"

He knows she's expecting him to say no, and indeed he could probably count on one hand the number of professional staff in his team who actually knew how to work the copier, or any of the indispensable office equipment, for that matter. Luckily for him (and for Emma Swan) he's lived a life of being painfully self-sufficient. "I've always been a hands-on kind of man."

She rolls her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile remains. "Fine, but don't think I'm taking my eyes off you for a second."

"I would despair if you did," he tells her with a grin, then almost staggers under the weight of the bundle of documents she slings into his arms without ceremony.

"In that case, I need two copies of that, thanks."

It shouldn't come as a surprise to him that they work well together, but it does. She's methodical, but not because she's a stickler for the rules, but she's obviously determined not to miss a trick. It's the same way he likes to work and, once the copying is finished and they're in her office, working their way through contradictory lists of dates and accusations of misleading email communication (as always, any contact with matrimonial law makes him wonder how these people managed to fall in love with each other in the first place), he asks the question he's been wanting to ask since the moment he heard her voice on his first day. "What made you choose this area of law?"

She glances up, apparently startled by the question, perhaps even a little unnerved, then she looks down again. Her gaze trained on the document in front of her, she trails the end of her pen down the page as she answers. "I don't know." She taps her pen on the thick affidavit, her hand moving restlessly. "Why do any of us chose the area we choose?"

"A vocation." He notes another discrepancy in recollection between former husband and wife, then looks up at her, taking the opportunity to study her delicate profile while she is so very deliberately not meeting his eyes. "A calling, perhaps?"

"Well, that all sounds very poetic, but I just went where the most steady source of work was." She finally raises her head, her gaze meeting his with a silent jolt of awareness, and he hopes very much he's not imagining the sudden darkening of her eyes. "What about you?"

He hesitates, then decides there is nothing to be lost by being honest. After all, he's already gotten off to the worst possible start with her; surely the only way to go is up? "My older brother helped sway my decision to study law," he begins, and sees her sit up a little straighter in her chair, her pen now motionless. "He was a solicitor, and he kept telling me I'd be a natural." It's been so long since he's shared this story with anyone, he's almost forgotten how it ends. Almost, because how could he forget? "He died when I was twenty, and I promptly spent then next year wasting my life on wine, women and song, as the saying goes."

She's utterly silent as he pauses, and he knows he's saying too much, but he can't stop the words from coming. "Then I pulled my head out of my arse and went to law school, just as he'd been nagging me to do." He smiles, remembering how many times he'd literally put his hand up in Liam's face in an attempt to stop him from talking. "He was right, the pompous arse. I _was_ a natural."

She stares at him, and he's suddenly aware that he can hear the sound of her breathing in the hushed quiet of her office. "How did he die?"

"Boating accident," he tells her, pleased that he can say the words now without a tremor in his voice. It's been 10 years, after all. "In hindsight, I now take comfort from the fact that he died doing something he loved, however clichéd that sentiment may be." He smooths his hand down the bundle of documents in front of him, then slides them across the desk to her. "All done, milady."

She's staring at him, her dark lashes fluttering as she blinks, then he sees her swallow hard. "Uh, thank you.

Their eyes meet and hold as the mood between them changes, becoming something uncertain and tentative, and he sees a flash of panic in her expression. She's not afraid of him, he knows that, but of the unnamed_something _that seems to be burning the air between them, making his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry. Checking his watch, he feigns dismay at the fact that it's almost six o'clock, because if he stays here one moment longer, he might say any number of things, and he's already overshared enough for one day. "If you don't need my services further, I think I might visit the market on my way home." He smiles at her. "My kitchen cupboards are painfully bare."

She's looking at him as though he's suddenly started speaking in a foreign language of which she only knows a few words. "Uh, no, you're free to go."

He smiles at her choice of words (she would have made an admirable member of the constabulary), then pushes back his chair. At the door of her office he turns to give her a mock salute. "Goodnight, Swan. See you tomorrow, perhaps."

She gets to her feet, walking out from behind her desk. "Goodnight, Jones." She hesitates, seeming to balance on one booted foot, then smiles at him. It's a real smile, one that lights up her eyes, and for a fleeting moment he sees past the practiced façade to the woman he'd held in his arms on Friday night. "Thanks for the assist."

To his horror, he has to fight the urge to shuffle his feet in the face of her gratitude. Instead he finds himself rubbing the back of his neck, the nervous tic that used to cost him countless games of poker against his brother and a habit he was quite sure he'd broken years ago. _Apparently not,_ he thinks wryly. "It was my pleasure, love."

Again, her gaze locks with his, and again he sees the spectre of their stolen kiss flash in her eyes. He says nothing, not wanting to break the delicate spell that seems to have wrapped itself around them, and he's never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. After what feels like an eternity (but is surely little more than a few seconds) she nods as she retreats behind her desk once more, and the moment is lost. "See you tomorrow."

It's not until he's halfway to the supermarket closest to his apartment (he hadn't been lying about the lack of supplies) until he realises the enormity of what has just occurred. He and Emma Swan have had their first real conversation – he's decided that their delicious pre-kiss flirtation or the post-kiss almost argument don't officially count – and managed to engage in civil dialogue like normal, rule-following adults. Not only that, they'd worked well together, as though they'd been prepping cases as a team for years rather than two hours. When he adds this to the fact that he _knows_she's not as immune to his charms as she's desperately trying to make out and the fact that he's spent the last two days replaying that bloody kiss in his head, there is only one conclusion to be drawn.

He could quite easily fall in love with that woman and, for the first time in years, the notion fills him not with dread, but with anticipation. _To put it into plain English_, he realises with faint despair, _he's a goner. _He pulls up at the next intersection, staring unseeingly at the red traffic lights above his head.

After Milah, he told himself time and time again that he would never put himself through this nonsense again, and yet here he is, happily consumed with the prospect of giving Emma Swan the opportunity to rip out his heart and crush it right before his very eyes.

Bloody hell.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma stares at the empty doorway of her office long after she can no longer hear Killian Jones' footsteps retreating down the corridor. Finally, she slumps back in her chair, feeling as though she's just gone three rounds with her boxing instructor. Her heart is beating too fast, the palms of her hands damp with sweat, her pulse thrumming dully in her ears. Picking up her bottle of water, she downs half of it in one hit, then screws the cap back on with fingers that are suddenly beyond clumsy.

Seriously, what the hell just happened here?

It's bad enough that she'd barely managed to get any sleep on Friday night after that outrageous kiss he'd planted on her (okay, technically she'd kissed him, too) and had spent the rest of the weekend wandering around her apartment in an idiotic stupor that had gotten on her last nerve long before she'd gotten the disgruntled text from her out-of-town superior. It had actually been a relief when she'd had to rush into the office to get that urgent application done, because then at least her mind was occupied with something other than how she'd barely been able to put one foot in front of the other to find a taxi after sharing nothing more than a single kiss with someone she couldn't _stand_ in any way, shape or form. She'd methodically drafted responses to their client's ex-life partner's outrageous claims and for a few hours, she'd stopped having to cross her legs every time she remembered the way Killian Jones had kissed her.

And then, because apparently the universe likes to see her squirm, he'd showed up in the doorway of the copy room, dressed in faded jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt that confirmed (not that she'd been wondering, of course) that he was put together exactly how she liked men to be put together. Lean but not skinny, with nicely muscled shoulders and a chest that made her think that maybe he made a habit of swimming (not that she'd been thinking about that, of course). He'd smiled at her, and the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. Then he'd asked if she needed any help, without a single hint of sarcasm or innuendo, and she felt as though someone had flipped a mirror and everything was back to front.

_Idiot,_ she thinks darkly to herself now, but isn't really sure if she means him or her. So they'd shared a half-drunken kiss and she'd found out that he wasn't quite the shallow manchild she'd pegged him as, but that doesn't mean anything. It's not as though they're in danger of becoming A Thing. After all, he's just vanished into the night without such much as a backwards glance, and she tells herself that she's not disappointed. It's not as though she'd wanted him to kiss her again.

Pushing aside the voice in her head telling her what a terrible liar she is, she closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, then turns her attention back to the work in front of her. She needs to finish the application and email it through to Katherine for approval, then she can drive herself crazy thinking about Killian Jones and how she really wishes she still hated the sight of his stupidly handsome face, because hating him was so much more simple that whatever the hell it is that she's feeling now.

* * *

She doesn't get home until after nine - Katherine had been in a particularly pedantic mood, and the amendments to their client's affidavit had been many and complicated – and as she stands in front of her nearly empty refrigerator, she realises that she should have followed her temporary office assistant's lead and picked up a few things on the way home. After scowling at its uninspiring contents (an ancient wedge of cheese, some limp kale and an unopened bottle of Krug do not translate into dinner in anyone's language), she slams the refrigerator door shut and reaches for the kitchen drawer where she keeps the takeout menus. Maybe she should be embarrassed that the drawer in question is so crammed full of menus and flyers that she can barely get it open, but she accepted a long time ago that being a fully-functioning adult when it came to food was a lost cause as far as she was concerned.

She orders pizza, unearths a bottle of red wine from the top cupboard (she's briefly tempted by the bottle of bubbles in the fridge, given the weekend she's had, but she is _not_ going to polish off a bottle of expensive champagne by herself on a Sunday night) and settles down on the couch to desultorily press buttons on her television remote and try not to analyse why she feels so down. Working the long hours she does, she's always been content to retreat to the sanctuary of her apartment on the weekends, but tonight the solitude she usually finds comforting just isn't cutting it.

It's all _his _fault, she decides sourly as she pours herself a small glass of red. Killian Jones and his beautiful accent and his beautiful face and his goddamn tragic life story that almost brought her to tears before she'd managed to get a grip on herself. When he'd been telling her about his brother, he'd seemed like a completely different man from the one she's been watching swaggering through the hallways for weeks, and definitely a different man to the one who'd assumed on Friday night that an enthusiastic response to a kiss (no matter how freaking earth-shatteringly good it had been) meant that she was on the verge of jumping into his bed.

When he'd finished speaking of his brother, he'd looked at her across her desk with a smile that was more than a little sheepish. He'd then made a show of tidying the last document he'd crosschecked for her, looking almost embarrassed that he'd shared something so personal, and she'd tried not to dwell on the fact that her bullshit radar (so finely tuned after so many years of dealing with the best bullshit the world had to offer) hadn't had a single ping since he'd appeared in the doorway. As he'd slid the document across the desk to her, she'd found herself thinking that maybe he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. Maybe there was a lot more to him than just being the pretty office Romeo, and for some reason that had scared the crap out of her.

Earlier, when he'd asked her why she'd chosen to immerse herself in Family Law, the urge to tell him about her own less-than-stellar history had almost burned a hole in her tongue, which had shocked her. (She doesn't talk about her life in the foster system anymore, not for years, and certainly not with him.) She'd swallowed the impulse and instead he'd shared his own story. Then, a few minutes later, he'd said goodnight, and the moment had been lost. She should have been relieved, but instead she'd just felt unsettled. Hovering in her doorway, his gaze had met and held hers, and the air around them had seemed to ripple with a weird static energy, making the hairs on her arms stand on end. When he'd finally left, after giving her another one of those sheepish smiles, her office (normally satisfactory in every way) had seemed strangely drab, as though the lights had been dimmed by an unseen hand.

_Oh yeah,_ she thinks with faint desperation, wondering if the memory of his mouth on hers will ever stop making her heart feel as though it's about to leap out of her chest. _Her life was definitely simpler when she hated him._

* * *

To her surprise, she doesn't see him at all on Monday, not even at a distance. Refusing to admit (even to herself) that she'd made an extra effort with that morning's wardrobe, she strides resolutely through the hallways, determined not to spend her day scanning the horizon like a damned meerkat with a crush. She's seen it happen time and time again since he'd joined the firm, and by now she was almost an expert in pinpointing the moment when one of her colleagues set their sights on him. She refuses to become one of them. She also refuses to entertain the idea that she might already be one of them, because _no._

It's the middle of the afternoon when she hears his name mentioned, dropped into conversation in the break room by one of the secretaries in her team. Peering over the coffee machine (yes, like a damned meerkat, God help her) her heart sinks, because it's the irritatingly attractive redhead from her department, the one who had apparently slept with their British import after yet another team bonding exercise months ago, or so the office rumour mill went. Torn between escaping and staying to finish reheating her belated lunch in the microwave, Emma stays, telling herself that if she doesn't eavesdrop or join in the conversation, it won't get weird.

"Oh, come _on._"

"I'm not seeing Killian." There's the sound of coins dropping into the vending machine, then the beeping of buttons being pressed. "Believe me, if I was, you'd know."

Her friend scoffs loudly. "So you slept together once and now you're just friends?"

_Okay, so that got weird pretty fast,_ Emma decides as she chances another quick glance over the coffee machine. The other two women are studying the contents of the vending machine, not exactly bothering to keep their voices down, and despite all her best intentions every single word reaches her ears. She busies herself with pulling her lunch from the microwave, but it does nothing to stop the conversation from washing over her.

"Pretty much." The secretary's name is Holly, which Emma supposes is charming enough. "We agreed going in that it would just be a one-time thing."

The other secretary (she works in the Managing partner's office, Emma thinks) scoffs even louder this time. "I can't believe you let him sell you such a bullshit line."

"It was my idea as much as his." Holly's tone is even, and if she's lying, she's a damned good liar. "I just wanted to blow off some steam after splitting with Cam."

Emma hears more dropping of coins, more beeping of buttons being pressed, then the thud of a can of soda being dispensed. "I wouldn't have been happy with just once, not with Prince Perfect."

"It's funny, at first I thought he was the same as all the other career-obsessed desk jockeys in this place." Emma holds her breath as she hears the sound of heels clicking slowly across the hard break room floor towards the door. "Who knew he'd turn out to be a nice guy?" Holly laughs, a delicate lilting sound, and Emma suddenly feels a hot wave of something she desperately doesn't want to be jealousy churn through her stomach. "He actually came and apologised to me that people had found out and were gossiping about me. Seriously, who does that?"

"What did he expect?" She hears the sound of a soda can being opened. "From what I heard, half the 29th floor saw you two leave the bar together."

"I think he wanted me to know that he hadn't told anyone," Holly laughs, and Emma finds herself scowling. "He said something about bragging being bad form, whatever that means."

"So you're definitely not interested in hooking up with him again?" The question is put forward in an avid, almost eager tone, and Emma decides she doesn't really like the Managing Partner's secretary.

"No." Emma can hear the smile in Holly's voice. "Cam and I are sort of seeing each other again."

"I knew it. You two are hopeless." Her friend laughs, then drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So you wouldn't mind if I asked Mr Jones out for a drink?"

"Be my guest."

With that, the two women walk out of the break room, soda cans in hand, leaving Emma staring at the reheated pasta dish she no longer wants and the unhappy certainty that not only has she been wrong about Killian Jones, but that the thought of him going out for a drink with someone else makes her want to punch something, quite possibly the Managing Partner's secretary.

This, of course, would not be the best career move, so she drops into the gym on her way home from work that night. Her boxing instructor is lounging against the reception desk, and his eyes widen comically at the sight of her. "Is it Tuesday already?"

"No, still Monday." Emma gives him a grim look of appeal. "I just need to hit something very hard for an hour or so."

Unfazed, he nods and pushes himself away from the reception desk, practically rubbing his hands together in anticipation, the bastard. "In that case, follow me."

Her instructor almost kills her, but it doesn't work. That night, she still has trouble falling asleep, still restless despite her aching arms and shoulders. "Fuck it,"she announces to her empty bedroom just after midnight, then punches her pillow very hard, wincing at the faint shock wave that travels up her arm. _This_, she thinks furiously, _is exactly why she doesn't get involved._ She doesn't do dating, and she doesn't do yearning and crushes and looking for people in the corridor. Not since Neal, and that's worked for her for ten years and there's no reason for her to start changing now.

Except she can't stop thinking about how she'd felt when Killian Jones had kissed her, and how the idea that he might never kiss her again makes her feel as though she's messed up without even trying, and how she's spent so long running from everything she's feeling right now, she hasn't the faintest idea how to stop

* * *

The feeling of being in limbo carries over into Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday. She finally hears that the Maritime lawyers are out of town all week, involved in a site inspection for a claim, and she feels a brief flare of resentment that he hadn't mentioned it to her on Sunday when he was helping her prep her application. Then she gives herself a mental shake, because there was no reason for him to do so, and even less reason for her to expect it.

It's a trying week, and Friday morning proves to be the most trying of all.

Given her area of specialisation, she's spent the last ten years learning how to be detached and professional when it comes to the cases she's working, but every now and then, something comes along that makes her feel as though someone's reached into her chest and squeezed her heart to the point of bursting.

She spends the morning bringing herself up to speed on the new file she's been assigned, doing her best to keep the information she's absorbing on the surface, not letting it sink down into her head and her heart. But just before midday, she knows she's had enough, and if she doesn't take a break soon, she might just toss the file into the shredder.

She escapes to the coffee shop in the bottom of their building, finding a seat at one of the outside tables, wishing that she smoked, or maybe drank during a work day. Anything to dull the sharp edge of anxiety that's currently digging into her heart.

When she feels the gentle tap on her shoulder a moment later, she almost jumps out of her chair. She looks up to find Killian Jones looking down at her, sympathy swimming in those bright blue eyes of his. "Rough morning?"

Later, she'll marvel that the thought of brushing him off didn't even occur to her. "You could say that." She pauses, feeling as though she's on the cusp of the proverbial great unknown, and she has the sudden suspicion she's not the only one holding their breath. "I thought maybe some caffeine might help, but now I think I might end up bouncing off the walls."

He smirks, and she presses her lips together into a tight line, but it's too late to take the words back. It's as though her mouth and tongue have decided to take charge of the conversation, because she certainly wasn't planning on being quite so chatty with him.

"I must confess, I'd pay good money to see _that_," he teases, and she allows herself a mild eyeroll. He might not deserve the sleazy bastard label she'd pinned on him when he'd first started at the firm, but apparently he's still the type of guy not to waste the chance to flirt with her. Still smiling, he gestures towards the barista. "What's your alternate poison?"

Maybe she should say no - he's a can of worms she really shouldn't open, not with her head full of the file from hell - but something reckless washes over her, and she smiles back at him. "I wouldn't say no to a hot chocolate."

"Sweets for the sweet?

She gives him the most exasperated look she can conjure up, but she has the feeling it falls short of her usual high standards. "Really?"

As she suspected, it's like water off a duck's back, because he still looks delighted by the simple fact that they're having a conversation. "Sorry, love, best pun I could manage on such short notice."

After placing their order, he takes the seat opposite her, his elbows on the small table between them, his mouth curved in an easy smile. "So, it appears you survived your Sunday spent in the office last weekend."

She doesn't want to be entranced by his melodic accent and the way his eyes light up when he smiles at her, but _damn it_, she is. "I did, and thanks again for the help."

He waves her 'thank you' away, but not before she sees the faintest hint of colour high on his cheekbones. _Blushing? Seriously?_ "As I recall, one of the pillars of the firm's core values is teamwork." He dips one shoulder, leaning closer to give her a wink. "Just doing my bit, love."

She stares at him, the words _who the hell are you _dancing on the tip of her tongue, only the appearance of a waiter bearing their order saving her from herself. The instant they're alone once more, he gives her the same look – part concern, part curiosity – as he had when he'd discovered her in the copy room last Sunday. "Is it the same matter that's giving you grief?"

"No, that one's settled down, at least for now." She wants to rub her tired eyes, but her mascara isn't up to the abuse, and instead reaches for the steaming mug of hot chocolate in front of her. "I've been working on a new file this morning and it's doing my head in."

He takes a sip of his coffee, watching her with those unbelievably blue eyes over the rim of his cup. "I've got an appointment uptown in an hour, but I'm all ears now if you need a sounding board, Swan."

She looks down at the milky swirled pattern on the top of her hot chocolate, breaking away from his steady gaze. Every passing moment she spends with this guy, the pull towards him gets stronger and stronger, and it's scaring the crap out of her. But he'd been so helpful on Sunday, helping her unravel more than one figurative knot, so she takes a deep breath. "You know when you just _know _you're acting for the bad guy?"

He grins at her. "That's most of my client list, Swan."

She tries to smile, but she's not sure she manages it. "Okay, well, here's the thing." She keeps her voice low and the details anonymous, because although there's no one sitting near them, the last thing she needs is to be pulled up on a breach of client confidentiality. "A birth mother is contesting custody of the child she gave up for adoption ten years ago." As she talks, she almost swipes a fingertip full of foam from the top of her drink, then remembers where she is. "She claims that his adoptive mother is emotionally abusing him."

"And is she?"

"She says no." Emma sighs. "The child psychologist says no, too."

He's frowning, and she can almost see his thoughts ticking over. "What does the child say?"

There's a sudden lump in her throat, and she has to swallow hard. "The poor kid refused to say anything at all."

He sits back in his chair, his expression solemn. "That's quite the sad tale."

"We're acting for the adoptive mother. I haven't met her in person yet, but reading through her affidavit-" The knot in Emma's throat seems to grow larger, choking her voice. "I think she's lying."

His gaze is still steady, but now she finds it oddly calming. "What's your game plan?"

Somehow, the concern (concern for _her) _in his voice makes the words easier to say. "Either I suck it up and do my job, or I speak to Katherine about passing the matter onto someone else."

A small frown creases his forehead. "I would have thought you'd have to deal with such things on a regular basis, love. What's upset you about this particular situation?"

_You're already told him too much_, the familiar panicky voice in her head whispers, but she pushes it aside. "It's all just a little too close to home for me." He raises one dark eyebrow at her, and she takes another deep breath. "I was in the foster system until I was sixteen, and it wasn't a particularly happy experience."

For the first time since she's met him, he appears lost for words. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Swan," he finally murmurs, looking as though he's worried he's saying all the wrong things, which is definitely not a normal expression for him. "You seem to have triumphed over such a bleak start in life, though."

"Most of the time," she mutters, thinking of Neal and August and all the bad choices she's made and had made for her. "One silver lining is that I found my birth parents two years ago."

He nods, glancing down at his coffee as he speaks, as if to give her some breathing space. "A happy outcome, I hope?"

She hesitates, but only briefly, because it _had_ been a happy meeting in a strange kind of way, happy and weird and unsettling all at the same time. "They're very nice people," she tells him, then looks at her watch in dismay. _Crap. _"I have to go, sorry. I only meant to take five minutes."

He watches in amusement as she hastily downs her hot chocolate (thankfully, cooled just enough so she doesn't scald her throat) and refuses the five dollars she tries to give him. "Consider it my treat, Swan."

"Thanks." She's on her feet, vaguely relieved for the excuse to escape from the disconcertingly intimate vibe that has wrapped itself around their little table. She may have been daydreaming about him all damn week, but now that he's finally with her in the flesh (God_,_ _don't_) she needs to put some space between them so she can think. "I owe you one."

"Swan, wait-" He's on his feet now too, one hand on the back of his chair. "It seems we're both swamped this week, but perhaps I could still buy you that drink sometime?"

She needs to get back upstairs, but her feet seem to be glued to the ground and once again, a spark of recklessness loosens her tongue. "But then I'd owe you _two _drinks."

His smile makes her toes curl in the points of her stilettos. "You wouldn't owe me anything at all, Swan, not even the pleasure of your company." He quirks one dark eyebrow at her. "Although I have to confess, that _would_be lovely."

_And the ball is lobbed right back into her court_, she thinks. _Damn him. _She thinks of all the time she's spent replaying that stolen kiss in her head, and she knows she wants more. The problem isn't the kissing, though. It's all the complications that come with it. He's watching her, looking for all the world as though he's holding his breath, and it's suddenly easy to shoot him a playful smile. "I'll think about it."

He dips his head in a little bow, his white teeth flashing in a smile. "Thank you, milady."

They head in different directions then (he's visiting a client and she's heading back to the file from hell) and she's still shaking her head as she steps into the elevator, because honestly, who talks like that? Catching sight of her reflection in the mirrored back wall of the lift, she blinks at the dreamy smile plastered on her face, and gives herself a mental shake. She's still got the small matter of talking to Katherine about their new client looming over her head, and she can't afford to drift around looking like a lovesick fool. Not that she's anything of the sort, of course. Sighing, she presses the button for her floor, and thinks maybe if she tells herself that enough times, it might actually be true.

Somehow, she doubts it.

* * *

Katherine reassigns the case with a minimum of intrusive questions, and Emma wonders – not for the first time – how much the other woman knows about her background. That's one problem sorted, she muses, but as for the other niggling issue, well, she has the feeling that's not going to be as solved as easily.

She doesn't see Killian again that week, and the strange stalemate between them leads to her indulging a weekend spent eating way too much sugar, inhaling some quality carbs and drinking that bottle of imported champagne by herself on Saturday night while watching a Hitchcock marathon. She could have gone out with friends (she'd knocked back more than one invitation) but after the week she's had, she's more in a wallowing mood than a sociable one.

Having a quiet weekend turns out to be a good decision, because by Monday she's got her messed-up head under control. At least, she thinks she does, until a distinctly accented shout of, "Hold the elevator please!" heralds Killian's dramatic entrance into the lift just before the doors close on the ground floor.

"Swan!" He beams at her as he runs a hand through his hair, making it even more dishevelled. "Fancy meeting you here."

She wants to roll her eyes as she presses the button for their floor, but just the sight of him has sent a bolt of warmth through her, and she can't keep the smile from her face. "I _do_ work here, you know."

Darting a quick glance in the mirrored wall behind her, he straightens his tie, and her fingers itch with the urge to undo all his good work. He's dressed in the unofficial uniform of the male staff at their firm - black suit, white shirt, dark tie - but somehow it looks different on him. For one thing, he's wearing a waistcoat, and it's only when he smooths one hand down its buttoned front and gives her a mischievous smile that she realises that she's staring. "A fact for which I am eternally grateful."

She indulges herself in an eyeroll this time, because _come on_.Leaning back against the mirrored wall behind her, she grips the handles of her briefcase a little more tightly and tries not to notice that his gaze is sweeping over her from head to toe. Trying, but failing, and very glad she'd worn her favourite black suit and pair of killer heels today. By the gleam of admiration in his eyes, he approves of her wardrobe choices as well. Doing her best to ignore the way her stomach appears to be doing backflips, she clears her throat. "How was your weekend?"

"Blessedly dull."

She stares at him. Most of her colleagues would never admit to experiencing a dull weekend, with their Monday morning conversations filled of talk of trips to the beach and rock climbing and fine dining. They definitely wouldn't admit, and cheerfully at that, to a boring weekend. "Dull can be good sometimes," she agrees cautiously, and is rewarded with a grin.

"You know, I keep saying that, but no one believes me."

It's 8:15am on a Monday morning and a single drop of coffee has yet to pass her lips, and later these are the only excuses she can come up with for what she says next. "Can I ask you something?"

He leans back against the wall behind him, mimicking her pose so they're there now eyeballing each other across the lift. "Ask away, love. I'm an open book."

She sucks in a deep breath, then blurts it out. "Why did you kiss me?"

For a few seconds, he just stares at her, his eyes overly bright, a muscle jumping in his stubbled cheek. "Because I've fancied you from the moment I first saw you," he finally tells her, as casually as though they're discussing the weather and not having a conversation that's making her feel as though every inch of her skin is sparking with static. "Actually, that's not quite true," he adds as he fiddles with the knot of his tie, and she realises with a jolt that he's not feeling as casual as he's trying to make out. "I fancied you from the moment I first _heard_ you."

A dull flush creeps up the back of her neck, making her scalp prickle. "What do you mean, you _heard _me?"

He stops playing with his tie, running his hand through his hair again instead. "I was given the royal tour around the floor on my first day, learning how to escape the perils of a high rise office fire, and I head you on the telephone tearing strips off some hapless fool." He gives her an indignant look. "Most distracting of you, Swan, and now that I think of it, I still don't know where the fire exits are located."

_Oh, it's way too early in the morning for this_, she thinks with more than a hint of desperation, but the words just seem to keep falling out of her mouth. "That doesn't explain why you didn't bother speaking to me until we bumped into each other last Friday night."

He shrugs, but it's not dismissive, and he softens it with another smile. "Let's just say I sensed some hostility from the other party."

They're only two floors away from their destination, and she knows she should just shut the hell up, but it seems the floodgates have been opened and her brain has once again handed over the controls to her tongue. "Why did you sleep with Holly?"

Right on cue, the automated voice announces their arrival, and the elevator doors open. He puts out his hand to keep the doors from closing again, but doesn't move, his eyes locking with hers. "I was lonely."

She stares at him. He's not lying, not in the slightest, and her heart begins to thump hard in her chest. The thought that they might actually have more in common than just the whole kissing thing is more than a little scary. "You planning on sleeping with anyone else in the office?"

He raises his eyebrows at her as the lift door alert begins to beep, and he pushes himself away from the mirrored wall behind him. "Is that a trick question?"

Her face is flushed with heat as she obeys the silent 'after you' sweep of his arm, stepping out of the lift onto their floor, entirely too conscious of him following closely behind her. "You know what I mean."

He glances around them, obviously checking on their level of privacy, then leans closer, his voice barely above a whisper, his shoulder brushing against hers. "To be perfectly honest, Swan, the only plans I've entertained since our shared moment during the heady world of laser tag have involved courting _you._"

She feels herself swaying on her killer heels, and she's not sure if it's because of his voice or his words or the fact that he's standing so close. _Oh, God._ She can't remember the last time she'd gotten goosebumps simply from standing beside someone, and she's almost unbearably aware of his nearness. She can smell his aftershave - citrus and spice - and feel the subtle heat of him, and has to fight the urge to cross her arms over her breasts (her bra suddenly feels too tight, along with the rest of her clothes). Lifting her head, she meets his gaze head on. His expression is open and sincere and does very odd things to the pit of her stomach. "You want to court me?"

"Indeed." His smile is bordering on bashful, and again she feels that swoop of heat in the pit of her stomach. "Or perhaps even woo you, should the opportunity arise."

She lifts her chin, knowing she's clutching at straws, throwing the crumbling bricks of her resolve at him to see if he'll crumble as well. "And what if I don't want to be courted _or _wooed?"

A lightening quick flash of disappointment flickers across his face, then he sighs, his smile only slightly dimmed. "Then I would be thankful for that one shared moment and offer my substantial photocopying skills any time in the future should you have need of them."

She stares at him. "You really mean that, don't you?"

He shrugs. "I rarely say anything I don't mean, love."

Not one but two elevator bells ding, and she knows their privacy is about to come to an end. It's close to eight-thirty, and their colleagues who deliberately arrive at the very last moment are about to pour from the lifts. She steps away, walking slowly in the direction of her department, and she doesn't have to look behind her to know that he's following her. When they've moved away from the stream of co-workers now rushing towards their respective offices, takeout coffee cups clutching tightly in their hands, she turns to face him. "In that case, forget the drink."

His face falls at her words, but he just nods, apparently already making good on his promise to abide by her decision. "As you wish, love."

She waits until he's taken a step away, then grins. "You can take me out to dinner instead. I'm free on Saturday night."

People are still walking past them, the occasional curious glance being tossed at their way, but she doesn't care, not when he's looking at her as though someone's lit a candle behind his eyes. "Do you eat Thai food?"

"I'll eat everything as long as it's not raw."

He nods, his expression thoughtful, as if making a mental note, and she's almost disappointed he didn't latch onto the obvious double entendré. "There's an excellent Thai restaurant in my neighbourhood."

"Great." She's still clutching the handle of her briefcase so tightly she's lost feeling in her fingers, but it's better than embarrassing herself by reaching for the lapels of his suit jacket and planting the kind of kiss on him that might get both of them fired. "You can pick up some takeout on the way to _my_ neighbourhood."

His gaze narrows. "You're inviting me to your apartment?"

"Well, that depends." She checks her watch, and knows that she really,_really_ has to get to her office, but that doesn't stop her from taking a step closer to him. "I mean, the Thai food's a good start, but I still have no idea how you feel about watching old movies."

"Well, that depends," he parrots back at her with a smirk, taking a swaying step towards her. "Are you referring to the golden years of Hollywood, or what our young junior staff call _old_?"

"Think Hitchcock, not Home Alone."

He leans forward, close enough to make her breath catch in her throat, close enough for her to see the silvery flecks in his bright blue eyes. "In that case, Swan, I'd be delighted to accept your kind invitation."

"Good." Not trusting herself to say anything else without making an idiot of herself, she gives him a brisk nod, then turns on her heel and stalks towards the Family Law department, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back with every step. She can almost _feel _him smirking, the bastard, and it takes a considerable amount of willpower not to turn her head to see if she's right.

She smiles brightly at Katherine as she walks past the other woman's open office door, and refuses to feel guilty that she is actually arriving on time this morning, rather than two hours early. There's no sign of anyone at Holly's workstation, and Emma can't help but be relieved, given what's just transpired outside the elevators.

When she reaches the sanctuary of her own office, she shuts the door behind her, dumps her briefcase beside her desk and drops into her chair, feeling as though she's just run a gauntlet in more ways than one. Maybe life _was_ easier when she hated Killian Jones, but this rush of adrenaline is potent and exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and to think all she'd had to do was stop running blind and let him catch up.

Telling herself she doesn't care that Saturday is six whole days away, she switches on her laptop and waits for the inevitable barrage of emails to download. If nothing else, she thinks with a grimace as she eyes the towering stack of files and documents piled in her in-tray, at least they'll be a busy six days.

The morning passes quickly (she manages to chat easily with Holly whenever their paths cross) and it's not until Katherine hands her a thick document that needs to be urgently proofread that before lunch that Emma realises she's not exactly flying under the radar. "You've been smiling since you arrived," the older woman remarks dryly. "Good weekend?"

Emma grins at her boss. "I spent most of it on the couch watching DVDs by myself."

Katherine's shrewd gazes lingers, then she nods. "Sounds like heaven." She points to the hefty document on the desk, dashing off her last instructions over her shoulder as she walks out of Emma's office. "Before you go to lunch, if you could?"

"Not a problem." In six days, Emma will be able to discover if being kissed by Killian Jones really was as amazing as she remembers, and not even the prospect of not eating lunch until 3pm (again) can stop the thrill of anticipation currently zipping through her.

_Six days,_ she thinks as she begins to scan the first page, her brain already switching onto _detached_ mode as she starts to read through the written history of yet another marital disaster. She's spent the last ten years dancing her way through one night stands and fleeting relationships that didn't last as long as her iPhone battery's lifespan. She can wait six days for a kiss.

Emma closes her eyes, desire lurching through the pit of her belly at the mere thought of it. She _can _wait, but it seems she'll be replaying those same ten seconds over and over again in her head until he knocks on her front door. Restlessly crossing her legs, she opens her eyes and starts to proofread once more, knowing that she is totally and utterly screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

"Why did you sleep with Holly?"

Her question hits him like a velvet gloved punch. He's still trying to come to terms with the fact that he's just confessed to Emma Swan that he's fancied her from his first day at White and Mills – in the blasted lift, of all places – when she lobs the next conversational bomb at him.

He could tell her any number of things, of course. He could say that he'd slept with the girl because he'd known she was still madly in love with her erstwhile boyfriend and wouldn't be interested in pursuing a relationship with _him. _He could also tell her that he'd been drunk and made questionable choices, or that he'd had a stressful week at work and just needed to blow off some steam. Perhaps he should tell her that after Milah had left him and returned to her snivelling coward of a husband, he'd made a vow that true love was nonsense and that the only way to survive in this world was to treat sex as a pleasurable but emotionally detached business deal.

Just then, of course, a robotic voice announces they've reached their floor. _Of course._ The lift doors open, disturbing the fleeting sense of privacy, but he can't bear to lose momentum, not now. Flinging out one hand to stop the doors from closing again, he meets her gaze steadily – she looks almost afraid of what he might say – and tells her the real truth, the one that underpins every single one of his wretched excuses. "I was lonely."

Her green eyes widen, and he sees her chest rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. They look at each for an endless moment - he swears his heartbeat slows to an alarmingly sluggish dirge - then she lifts her chin, her gaze seeming to bore into his. "You planning on sleeping with anyone else in the office?"

His heart rate immediately does an about-face, kicking into overdrive. He's suddenly very glad that (a) they specialise in different fields and (b) they work for the same team, because if this is what it's like being up against her in court, he's not sure he'd win. Feeling faintly wrong-footed, he steps towards the open doors, gesturing for her to proceed him as the elevator alarm begins to beep. "Is that a trick question?"

He can't see her face as she replies, but her tone is somewhere between irritated and embarrassed, and he suddenly feels back on familiar ground as far as Emma Swan is concerned. "You know what I mean."

He follows her out of the lift and into the small foyer off which the hallways into the different departments lead, coming to a halt at her side. Miraculously, there's no one else in their vicinity, although he suspects that particular situation won't last very long. Feeling the press of passing time more urgently than he has in a long while, he leans as close to her as he dares, telling her another simple truth. "To be perfectly honest, Swan, the only plans I've had since our shared moment during the heady world of laser tag have involved courting _you._"

Her eyelids flutter, lashes flickering darkly against her pale cheeks as if in disbelief. "You want to court me?"

"Indeed." He allows himself a few seconds to drink in the lovely picture she makes in her black suit and silky red shirt, her golden hair styled in yet another complicated braided arrangement, then he puts all his cards on the table in one fell swoop. _In for a penny, in for a pound_, he muses, because he might never have this opportunity again. "Or perhaps even woo you, should the opportunity arise."

She meets his gaze steadily, not a fluttering eyelash in sight, and he has a sudden sense of foreboding. "And what if I don't want to be courted _or_wooed?"

He swallows hard, heat staining the back of his neck. _And there it is_, he 's tried and he's failed, and while he rather wishes the ground would swallow him whole, if only until he stops feeling like a fool, he can't say he blames her. He is, after all, an unknown quantity with a bad reputation. "Then I would be thankful for that one shared moment," he tells her with a smile, because she deserves much better than an entitled git's petulance, "and offer my substantial photocopying skills any time in the future should you have need of them."

Disbelief once again flickers in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"

A thin sliver of hope breaks into his thoughts. "I rarely say anything I don't mean, love."

The ping of elevator bells sounds in the air, and he silently curses their timing. Without saying a word, Emma turns and starts to walk slowly towards the hallway that will take her to her office and, more importantly, away from him. She hasn't farewelled him, though, and her pace is a far cry from her usual elegant rush. He follows, drawn to her like a magnet seeks true north as their fellow workers pour out of the lifts and stream past them. Perhaps he's imagining things, but he senses their conversation isn't quite finished.

When they're clear of the madding crowd, so to speak, she turns to face him, her expression unreadable. "In that case, forget the drink."

For the second time in as many minutes, his heart sinks. It seems his optimism was misplaced, but again, he can't say he blames her for her caution. After all, he's personally spent the last several years avoiding emotional entanglements of any kind. He knows what it's like to want to keep your distance. "As you wish, love."

His smile is starting to make his face ache, and he feels it's time to retreat while he still has some dignity intact. He gives her a quick nod, and starts to move away, only to be stilled by her next words. "You can take me out to dinner instead. I'm free on Saturday night."

He'd think her teasing unkind, but he's too busy beaming at her like a lovesick fool. The firm's resident ambulance chaser almost bumps into him as he scurries from the lift in the direction of his office (_perhaps he saw a potential client slip over on the sidewalk downstairs and is rushing to obtain a wad of business cards,_ Killian thinks), but nothing is going to stop him from closing this particular deal. "Do you eat Thai food?"

Emma grins at him. "I'll eat everything as long as it's not raw."

_Good grief._ He bites his tongue, because one false move or bad pun and he'll be out on his ear, but oh, the glorious possibilities. "There's an excellent Thai restaurant in my neighbourhood."

"Great." She nods, still clutching her briefcase with both hands like a shield in front of her. "You can pick up some takeout on the way to _my_neighbourhood."

He stares at her. He's usually a very quick study, but in this case, he feels the need for clarification. "You're inviting me to your apartment?"

"Well, that depends." She flicks a glance at her watch, then takes a step towards him, gifting him with the most flirtatious smile he's seen since, well, ever. "I mean, the Thai food's a good start, but I still have no idea how you feel about watching old movies."

"Well, that depends." He can no more stop himself from closing the distance between them than he could stop himself from kissing her that first night. "Are you referring to the golden years of Hollywood, or what our young junior staff call _old_?"

Her wide mouth twitches in a lascivious smirk, and a good deal of his blood immediately heads southward. "Think Hitchcock, not Home Alone."

_It's official_, he thinks with a bewildering mixture of triumph and despair. _God help him, she's bloody perfect._

Standing this close, her perfume teases his nose, but underneath the layer of manufactured scent, he can also smell warm female skin and lip gloss. Looking at her lips, he remembers the taste of her mouth, and almost doesn't trust his voice to speak. "In that case, Swan, I'd be delighted to accept your kind invitation."

"Good." With that, she gives him a brisk nod, spinning on her heel and striding gracefully away.

He watches her go and, not for the first time, he wonders how the devil she can possibly walk in those wonderfully ludicrous shoes of hers.

The back view is almost as good as the front, and he can't help indulging himself in watching the sway of her hips and those long black stockinged legs as she sweeps away in the opposite direction. If he's not mistaken (and he prides himself on his attention to detail), today's outfit is comprised of the very same black suit and heels she'd worn on the evening of their team bonding exercise. If that is indeed the case, he knows exactly how smooth the fabric of that skirt is, especially just above the hips, and just how perfectly her body would fit against his with the added height from those shoes. But alas, he doesn't have time to dwell on such things (or to take a cold shower in the staff facilities), so he turns away at last, striding towards his office with a speed borne of pure jubilation.

He may have just wasted yet another weekend mentally mooning over this woman, but he suspects _next_ weekend will be quite different. If only it weren't six days away.

Buzzing with adrenaline, he blasts his way through his morning's work to the point where his partner raises an eyebrow over his industriousness. "Keep this up and I'll start looking over my shoulder," the older man says with a wry smile.

It's a frequent joke between them, and Killian knows the response that's expected. "No fear, mate." He runs a hand through his hair, and wonders if it's too soon to send Emma an email. "You know me, Marco. The only job I'm interested in doing well right now is mine."

* * *

He lasts until Wednesday before he sends her an email, taking almost fifteen minutes to compose a message that by rights should have only taken fifteen seconds. He'd seen her at a distance quite early that morning, scooting through the foyer dressed in exercise gear, complete with baseball cap and ponytail, obviously having been to the gym or perhaps for a run.

_Fancy replenishing some carbs at lunch time?_

As soon as he sends it, he wants to recall the blasted thing, because what was he thinking? They'd agreed on a time and place for dinner, and now he's badgering her like an infatuated teen. Before he can reach for the mouse again, though, her reply pops up in his inbox. He grins at the screen, because it's now obvious she truly is his type of woman.

**_Only if I don't have to watch you eat a green salad._**

_As you get to know me, Swan, you'll learn that's never an issue._

**_I should be free by 1:30. Meet you downstairs?_**

_Ashamed to be seen with me, love?_

**_Really? Resorting to that line so soon?_**

_Sorry. Couldn't resist. See you at 1:30._

Still grinning, he checks his watch. That gives him two hours to read through a statement from a recently suspended tanker captain that he suspects is a pile of waffle and nonsense, then he can enjoy some fresh air and the pleasure of Emma Swan's company for an hour.

He's definitely had worse Wednesdays.

She's ten minutes late meeting him in the ground floor foyer, arriving with a clatter of heels and a breathless smile and, as always, something in his chest tightens at the mere sight of her. "Sorry, got caught up on the phone with a distressed client."

He waves away her apology, straightening up from where he'd been leaning against the marble column with that he hopes is a casual air that in no way indicates he was beginning to think she wasn't coming. "I do hope you added an extra counselling charge to your fee for the duration of the call."

"I wish," she laughs softly as they make their way out through the revolving glass door and into the bright sunshine. "I'm afraid the time spent being counsellor and hand-holder and new best friend is all classed as non-billable hours."

Once out in the real world, they look at each other, and he's gripped with a sudden sense of 'what now'? He sees his own uncertainty reflected in her eyes, and feels his lips start to twitch with a smile. She's smiling as well as she shakes her head at him, then nods in the direction of the small park across the street, where a large sign outside a free-standing café boasts of New York's best shakes, burgers and fries. "I hope you weren't kidding about the carb loading, because that's where we're going."

He grins, his belly in serious danger of rumbling. "I do like a woman who knows her own mind."

"More like my own stomach at the moment, but thank you." She darts a glance over her shoulder at him as she makes for the crossing, and he sees the pink tinge in her cheeks. "I think."

The waiting line to order is out the door, giving him time to admire her glorious tumble of hair (no braid today) and the fact that she's forgone her jacket, leaving her arms bare. 'I've never eaten here," he tells her, shrugging out of his own jacket and loosening his tie in deference to the midday sun.

"You've been missing out," she shoots back, turning from the menu board outside the front door with a smile that seems to still on her lips as she takes in his newly relaxed state of dress. She looks at his loosened tie, and he can almost feel the hollow of his throat burning at her regard. When her gaze snaps up to meet his (they're standing much closer than he realised) it's like all the air has been sucked from his lungs. _Bloody hell. _A single bead of sweat follows the line of his spine, and he's never been more gripped with the urge to kiss someone in his life.

"Uh," she mutters, blinking as she turns back to the menu, but not before he sees the same shocked reaction in her own eyes. "What are you getting?"

He has to swallow twice before he can speak. He doesn't want to order lunch. He wants to slide his arm around Emma Swan's waist and pull her close, waiting until her lips part with what he's sure will be a colourful riposte, then kiss the hell out of her. "Why don't you order for both of us?"

She very carefully doesn't look at him, but he can see that her face is flushed. "Two shack burgers it is." She purses her lips as she studies the menu board. "Oh, and you're getting cheese fries too, because I really want to try them."

He doesn't blink an eyelid at her shameless hijacking of his order, which is a fair indication of how much trouble he's in here. Digging his wallet out of his back pocket, he hands her a battered fifty dollar bill without comment. He's been in the States long enough not to bother asking what a shack burger might entail. He suspects it will be so large he'll have trouble taking a bite and will involve a great deal of melted cheese, and if that's what she's having, that's fine with him.

She looks at the money in her hand, then holds it up in front of his nose. "This one's on me."

He bites back his resigned sigh, because he knows she's not doing it for show. "I asked_ you_ to lunch, lass."

"Yes, and I intend to eat most of your fries." Reaching down, she grabs his wrist and pulls his hand upwards, then presses the fifty into his palm. "You can buy dinner on Saturday night."

Trying not to make too much of the fact she still seems to be holding his hand, he raises his eyebrows. "Why do I have the feeling that I've just been outmanoeuvred?"

Her smile is both a challenge and a promise and it makes his gut clench in the best possible way. "Maybe because you just were?" She drops his hand, and he has to fight the urge to rub his fingers over where her skin had touched his.

"Remind me never to come up against you in the courtroom, love," he teases, keeping his tone light. Again her gaze meets his with an almost audible _snap_, and again he has that sense of all the air being drained from the air around them. Her lips part as if to speak, then the queue moves and it's finally their turn to order, and the moment is lost. Perhaps it's for the best, he thinks, because he has the feeling the way to Emma Swan's heart is to let her set the pace, and kissing her while they're waiting to order lunch doesn't really fit the bill.

They manage to find an empty table in the shade (she may have insisted on paying, but she makes no objection to him carrying the large bag of food) and after she dusts the leaves off the small plastic table, he pulls out her chair for her. She looks at him, obviously startled, then presses her lips into a tight line that doesn't quite hide her smile. "Thanks."

As he suspected, a shack burger is quite the beast. However, he's famished, and if he'd realised his lunch companion had been so deadly serious regarding her intention to consume the cheese fries, he may have ordered two servings. She does graciously allow him to sample the side dish, and he's secretly grateful she's saving him from himself. He has a busy afternoon ahead of him, and he can't afford to head back to the office ready for nothing more than a food coma-related nap.

Marvelling at Emma's obviously remarkable metabolism, he tries not to stare at the way she's eating her lunch with such child-like bliss that he almost feels as though he's intruding. "How was your weekend, Swan?"

She hastily swallows a mouthful of burger, then reaches for another fry. "It was great. I told all my friends I was busy doing other things, then sat on my couch and watched old movies."

He grins. Oh, he _does _like her. He thinks of their conversation in the elevator a few days ago, and how she'd smiled at his telling her that his own weekend had been blissfully dull. He's become so accustomed to people talking up their weekend accomplishments, he'd missed that perhaps he wasn't alone in enjoying a quiet weekend now and then. "Sounds lovely." He liberates a fry from the container sitting in the middle of the table. "As for myself, I did some serious internet research on the topic of restoring a vessel that in reality should have been sent to the depths a good decade ago." He licks his lips with relish, fearing this introduction to cheese fries will only lead to repeat encounters. "I didn't speak to a single soul all weekend, and it was delightful."

She nods in agreement, as only someone who spends their working hours wearing their throat sore with conversation can nod, then rests her chin in her hand, looking at him with obvious curiosity. "You're restoring an old boat?"

"Not yet." He wipes his greasy fingers on the napkin, then reaches for his phone in his pocket. "There's one that I'm thinking of buying, but finding the time to buy the bloody thing, let alone start planning any restorations, is proving more elusive than I thought." He scrolls quickly through the photos on his phone, then holds out his phone so she can see the screen. "Behold, the 1932 Weatherhead fishing boat that may or may not be my undoing for the next few years."

Her eyes widen, and he can only guess at her thoughts. He knows what she's seeing - a plain but classic wooden fishing boat, loved for many decades but sadly left to its own devices for the last five years – but wonders if she can see the possibilities beyond its current less-than-impressive state. To his delight, it seems she can.

"Well." She purses her lips approvingly. "That's going to be quite something once it's had its magical makeover."

"Ah, if only magic were a possibility, love," he says wryly, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "If I do actually purchase the wretched thing, I'll be using elbow grease and sweat to make it come alive again."

"More fun than going to the gym, at least," she counters with a helpful smile, and he chuckles.

"Considering how much I dislike going to the gym, Swan, that's not much consolation, but thank you."

"You don't go to the gym?" She sounds truly taken aback, and he frowns, feeling that he's missed something. Perhaps she disapproves of those who don't partake in formal indoor exercise, which would be a great pity.

"Not unless I'm dragged, kicking and screaming, I'm afraid."

She glances at his shoulders, then his chest. "But you look-," She stops abruptly, an expression of horror flashing across her lovely face, quickly followed by a blush that makes him want to press his palm against her cheek to feel the warmth of her skin. "I mean, you look as though you exercise."

His own face feels more than a little warm as he allows himself a few seconds of internal preening (he's only human, after all) before tossing her a conversational lifeline. "So, you're a Hitchcock fan."

"Yep." She pops another fry into her mouth, not quite meeting his eyes. "Ever since I saw Psycho when I was ten."

"I'm impressed." He's doing his best to eat his mammoth burger and still carry on a conversation, but it's proving more difficult than he'd expected. "I saw it when I was sixteen, I think, and as I recall, I may have slept with the lights on that night." He remembers what she'd said about growing up in the foster system, and wonders at the carer who might think such a film suitable for a ten year old child. "No nightmares afterwards?"

"Not from that, no," she replies, her tone flat, and he realises they are indeed skating close to a past she may not wish to discuss.

Disliking the thought that he's derailed their light-hearted conversation, he admits defeat with his burger, dabs his mouth with his napkin and resists the urge to loosen his belt a notch. Perhaps a visit to the gym in the near future might not be such a bad idea, after all. "And what classics do you have planned for me on Saturday night, love?"

She purses her lips as though deep in thought, then gives him a mischievous smile, much to his relief. "You'll have to wait and see."

"Saturday is four days away." He rests his crossed arms on the table, leaning forward to catch her gaze with his. "The suspense just might kill me."

She gives him a look that plainly says she knows he's not just talking about her movie of choice. "You'll survive, I'm sure."

"Perhaps," he agrees, letting his knee brush against hers beneath the table, seeing the exact moment the subtle touch registers on her face. "How about _you_, love?"

The pink tip of her tongue flirts with her bottom lip. It's a nervous gesture, he knows (he does it himself on the odd occasion), but it still has him shifting awkwardly in his seat. "You're pretty sure of yourself for someone I've knocked back more than once," she points out, but she doesn't move her knee.

"Ah, but it's not the knockbacks that count, Swan." He slides his foot alone the gravelled ground a miniscule amount, and his calf brushes against hers. God help him, there're two layers of fabric between them, but the barely-there contact still zips up his leg straight to his groin. "It's what you do after them that matters."

She stares at him, her clear green eyes glittering with the same awareness that's currently making every hair on his body stand on end. "You should put that on a bumper sticker."

"Brilliant idea, love." Blowing out the breath that seemed to have gathered hotly at the back of his throat, he smiles at her. "And if they sell, I'll have our IP department draw up a royalty agreement with you." She chuckles at that, and he decides he would very much like to stay here with her for the rest of the afternoon, seeing how many times he can make her smile, but he knows even without looking at his watch that they should head back to the office soon. He's loathe to be the one who calls time on their encounter, but luckily, Emma Swan can be relied upon to be, well, Emma Swan. She looks at her watch, swears under her breath, then starts to toss their lunch debris into the crumpled paper bag.

"I suppose I should tell you my address," she murmurs as she tosses the now bulging paper back gently in his direction. He catches it against his chest, hastily holding it to one side to prevent any condiment/tie disasters. "Can't have you driving around Soho on Saturday night asking strangers if they know where I live."

_Soho._ He files away that particular detail with some relief. It definitely won't be a chore to get to her place from Brooklyn, although he would have endured an embarrassingly long journey to visit Emma Swan. "That would be grand, love." He pushes back his chair, then waits for her to follow suit. "I wasn't looking forward to having to go cap in hand to HR to beg them for your after-hours details."

She laughs, a decidedly unladylike snort. "Don't tell me there's someone in the firm immune to your charms?"

He tosses the paper bag into the nearest trash can, then turns to look at her. "I'm sure there are plenty, love, but there's only one someone whose opinion of me matters at this point in time."

She blinks, and he immediately regrets his frank confession, because he sees the instant the shutters come down in her eyes. She may have agreed to see him on Saturday night, but he's coming to realise Emma Swan might just be as complicated as she is beautiful. She's absolutely worth getting a few new battle scars for, though.

"We should get back."

"Alas, you are quite right, love."

She's still smiling, but she's also very carefully keeping at least a foot of space between them as they begin to walk. "Where do you live, anyway? Apart from a neighbourhood with a first class Thai restaurant, I mean."

He shoves his hands in his pockets as they make their way through the lunch time crowd towards their building, all the better not to give into the temptation to put his hand on the tempting curve at the base of her spine. "Red Hook."

"Of course you do," she murmurs, obviously amused, and he supposes he is ticking off quite a few boxes on the cliché list. "I guess that explains the boat." She stops in her tracks to avoid a tall woman coming in the opposite direction, talking very loudly on her cell phone and taking no prisoners when it comes to personal space. "Can you see the water from your place?"

He smiles at the barely disguised eagerness in her voice. "You can indeed, Swan. Just say the word."

She breathes out an annoyed huff, but he can see that she's smiling, too. "Not too late for another knockback, you know."

He wisely says nothing to that. There's no point in telling her that she's quite right. That signals the end of the conversation for the moment, and it's not until they're waiting for the lift on the ground floor that she breaks the odd silence that's fallen over them. "See? Not embarrassed to be seen with you at all." She gestures to the bank of elevators. "Getting in the same lift and everything."

She looks so pleased with herself that he can't resist the urge to push _her_buttons while they're waiting for the familiar _ding_ of the elevator. Taking a step towards her, he dips his head, putting his lips to the curve of her ear beneath the silken shroud of her hair. "In case you were wondering, Swan, I'd be happy to be seen with _you _anywhere," he whispers, his gut clenching at the answering shiver he literally sees rippling through her. The sound of footsteps behind them means she doesn't have the chance to retort before they're joined by several other people, and he holds his breath as she crosses her arms over her breasts and flashes him a fierce look that says payback will be coming his way (and soon) so clearly that he almost takes a step backwards.

_Bloody hell._

The elevator is crowded, and they stand silently side by side during the journey to their floor. He knows that if he moved his hand two inches to the right, he would be able to tangle his fingers through hers, and he's not sure she'd object. The knowledge makes him feel faintly giddy, a tiny kernel of secret knowledge tucked away between them.

They're the last to exit the lift, trudging after two clerks from the Finance department, and he knows his time with her is about to come to an official end. To his surprise, she touches his arm, a lightening quick brush of her fingertips against his sleeve, then smiles. "Thanks for lunch, Jones."

He bows his head. "I should be thanking _you_, Swan, for being kind enough to pay for and then consume most of my fries."

"Whatever." She rolls her eyes, but her high cheekbones are tinged with pink. "I'll email you my address, okay?"

"I shall await it with bated breath."

He watches as she walks away (damn, but those legs are almost as distracting as her smile). He heads to his own office and the prospect of three back-to-back client meetings, and thinks that perhaps he's just made the wait until Saturday that much more difficult.

* * *

The rest of his week is brutal (just how he likes it, to be perfectly honest), and his only contact with Emma is via email, a haphazard back-and-forth conversation that began two hours after they'd returned from lunch on Wednesday. She'd flicked him through her address and cell phone number - he'd added both to his contacts with almost indecent haste – he'd wished her luck with any future clients crying down the phone, and things has progressed from there. There wasn't anything that couldn't be seen by a third party, but more the short missives that were the email equivalent of cocktail party small talk. Over the course of the next two and a half days, he learns that while she grew up in Boston, she was born in Maine and that her birth parents still live there, which might explain her enthusiastic response to the sight of a battered old fishing boat. The love of the sea is something one is born with, after all, no matter where one spends their formative years.

He also learns that she's moved seven times in the last decade, which makes him wonder if she had been gripped by the same flight-or-fight trap in which he'd found himself trapped after Liam died.

That's not a topic of conversation for casual emails, he decides, but he files the pondering away for a later time.

It's not a one-sided correspondence, by any means. She manages to draw details out of him without prying, and afterwards he'll marvel at her graceful interrogation. She asks him if he's ever owned a boat before (no, he tells her, but he'd spent many a happy day with Liam on _his_ boat), when he'd left the UK (five years ago), what he thinks about the current state of pop music (he tries not to) and inexplicably, if he likes grilled cheese sandwiches.

It's such a relaxed, casual back-and-forth conversation that he's lulled into a sense of detachment, when he finally sees her again, just after six on Friday evening, he is completely unprepared for the violent jolt of attraction that rips through him. She's walking ahead of him in the ground floor foyer just before six on Friday evening, pushing her way out through the revolving glass door. Their last email contact had been an easy-going 'see you tomorrow' sort of thing, but he can't resist the urge to see her in person. Quickening his step, he manages to catch up with her easily on the pavement outside their building, mostly (he suspects) because she's once again wearing a pair of skyscraper heels.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says cheerfully when he reaches her side, and she whirls around, her thick braid almost smacking him in the chin.

"Damn it." One hand on her chest, she narrows her eyes at him. "If you're going to make a habit out of scaring me half to death, Jones, we're going to have to talk."

She's a vision in red, severely testing his resolve to say a quick hello and be done with it. "Sorry, love, but I couldn't resist the urge to wish you a good evening in person." He hesitates, then gestures towards her with one hand, trying to find the words that won't earn him a slapped face, knowing she's probably already seen all the wrong words emblazoned on his face. "I must say, you cut quite the figure in that dress, Swan."

Her gaze narrows a little more, but he sees the sparkle that comes with the joy of verbal sparring in her those bright green eyes of hers. "I guess I could let it pass this once."

The early evening air is warm, and he suddenly wants nothing more than to walk with her for as long as she'll allow, but seeing her glance at her watch reminds him that he wants and what her plans actually are appear to be two very different things. "Sorry, I didn't mean to keep you."

She blinks at the apology, then shakes her head. "It's okay, I'm just meeting a friend for dinner a few blocks away."

He tries to suppress it, but he can't stop the unwelcome trickle of jealousy that seeps into his thoughts. "A special friend?" he asks, keeping his tone light, because he has no place being jealous (even if he is) and she gives him a faintly exasperated look.

"I'm meeting a girlfriend for drinks so she can tell me all about the latest jerk in her life." He hears her unspoken _'not that it's any business of yours' _as clear as day, then she smiles at him, and warmth spreads deep in his chest. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wonders what it is about this woman that makes him feel like a callow schoolboy.

"Sounds lovely."

She hikes the strap of her purse a little higher on her shoulder, and glances at her watch again. "At least the bar snacks will be good." She looks as though she wants to say something else, then stops, shifting her weight from one high-heeled foot to the other. The early evening crowd streams past them as they stand on the pavement, and he realises he's not the only one who's having trouble parting company.

He nods down the street in the vague direction of his usual subway station. "I'm heading that way."

Flipping her golden braid over one shoulder, she takes a step in the direction he's just indicated. "So am I."

He quickly matches his step to hers. "You're catching the R train, too?"

"Hardly." The light smack on his bicep takes him completely by surprise (he can't remember the last time he thought of a punch as flirtatious) and he feels his eyes widen as he turns to glance at her. She looks completely unapologetic, almost smug, and he thanks his lucky stars that he was dragged into that wretched laser tag evening.

He's tempted to offer her his arm as they walk, but that might earn him another punch. Instead they walk in a companionable silence towards the station, and it's only when they reach the stairs down to his station that she bumps her shoulder against his. "What about you? Off to spend another evening agonising over whether to buy that boat?"

He smiles to himself. "Actually, I've got a date with a new case-file and a glass or two of Captain Morgan."

"That's right, you're a rum drinker." She wrinkles her nose. "I'm more of a wine fan myself." As soon as the words are spoken, she no longer looks smug but aghast, as though she can't believe what she's just said. He frowns, trying to work out why she should be so horrified at her own words, then he remembers that they've not actually shared a drink, or even discussed their tipple of choice. Besides, he hadn't had a drop of rum since the night they'd kissed –

Her gaze meets his, and he sees it (the answer he already knows) glittering in her eyes. He isn't the only one who remembers that damned kiss in exquisite detail, and now the air between them is thick with the memory of it.

Before he can say a word, she does her best to beat a hasty retreat. "Hey, I'd better get going." She licks her lips nervously, and heat surges low in his belly. "Ruby will be wondering where I am," she adds, but doesn't move a muscle, her gaze still locked with his, and he makes a sudden decision.

"Look, Swan, there's something I should have said days ago."

Her eyes widen, and she looks almost fearful. "What?"

Reaching out, he takes her hand in his, rubbing his thumb lightly over the smooth ridge of her knuckles. "I need to apologise."

Her pale throat works as she swallows, anxiety still brimming in her eyes. "For what?"

He takes a deep breath. "For kissing you."

She frowns, and he feels her hand tense in his. "You're sorry you kissed me?"

"No, I'll never regret that," he says in a rush, because she must surely know there's no way he would ever be sorry he shared that moment with her. "I _am_ sorry I kissed you in such a boorish fashion, though."

She stares at him for what feels like an eternity, and around them the beeping car horns and noise of human traffic seem to fade away. "Apology accepted." Her lips part softly as her gaze searches his, as though searching for all the words he's yet to say. "After all, I _did _kiss you back."

"Aye." He threads his fingers through hers, marvelling that her palm fits perfect against his. "That you did."

He's not sure if she leans closer first, or if the crowd around them simply conspires to push them together, but her free hand is suddenly curling around the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him towards her. Her mouth touches his in a soft, slow kiss, and he forgets everything but the taste and feel and smell of her, the scent of gas fumes and cigarette smoke vanishing until there is only Emma, warm and sweet and pliant. His hand is low on her back - God help him, he doesn't remember moving his arm – urging her closer, and when he feels the soft press of her breasts against his chest, he sighs into her mouth, a sigh she catches and breathes back into him.

The kiss lasts no more than a few seconds, but as she pulls back, he knows that everything has changed. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his head swimming with her, hunger roaring through his blood. She sways against him, her hands still gripping his coat lapels, her breath hot against his lips, her mouth little more than a whisper away from his. He's never wanted to kiss someone more – his whole body aches with it – but he doesn't. Not here, not in the middle of the bloody street. Swallowing the hard knot in his throat, his voice is barely a sigh. "That was-"

"A kiss goodnight," she whispers back, her nose brushing against his, then her hands drop, and the soft warmth of her is gone as she steps back. "I gotta go." She pauses, literally balancing on the balls of those ridiculous shoes of hers, then she smiles, a soft curving of her mouth that has him half-hard in a space of a heartbeat. "See you tomorrow around seven."

"Until then, Swan." For what seems like the umpteenth time since their first meeting, he watches her leave, his heart in his mouth and his pulse screeching in his ears like a wretched banshee. When she's been swallowed up by the crowd, he touches his fingertips to his lips, as that might help capture the taste of her. When he's certain his legs are steady once again, he makes his way slowly down the stairs to the station. He can smell the faintest hint of her perfume on the front of his shirt, and the taste of her lipstick teases his tongue when he licks his lips.

His train is late, crowded and smells of stale sweat and beer, but he grins like an idiot the whole way home.


	5. Chapter 5

When Emma was eight, she'd seen a newborn deer on television. Sitting in the common room of the Happy Cottage Children's Home, she and the other kids had watched as the foal floundered and tried to stand, holding their collective breath as it had finally triumphed over its wobbly legs and hooves that seemed far too big. Now, as she pushes her way through the crowds, knowing she's going to be late meeting Ruby and not relishing the prospect of having to explain why, she feels uncomfortably like that damned fawn.

Her legs are shaking, and the shoes in which she once danced for two hours straight now feel as though they're two sizes too big for her. Add the damp palms and the invisible butterflies that seem to have taken up permanent residence in the pit of her belly, and you have the perfect case of someone who's currently wondering what the hell they were thinking, kissing one of their work colleagues in the middle of the fucking street.

She knows what she'd been thinking. That's the problem. She'd been thinking that she needed to kiss him, needed it so badly it was as though her actual bones had been singing with the craving to feel his mouth on hers.

And feel it she had. Hell, she'd felt it _everywhere._

She shifts restlessly from one foot to the other as she waits to cross the street, wondering how the hell a simple kiss managed to make her feel as though her underwear was about to catch fire. If anything, the second kiss had been even better (or scarier, she can't decide) than the first. That first kiss had been a stolen moment of heat and impulse, fuelled by curiosity and booze. This kiss, the one she started, had been soft and dreamy and carried the weight of a week's worth of shared words and thoughts. In other words, she thinks with faint despair, much more dangerous.

As she reaches the restaurant, she pulls her compact out of her purse and checks to see if she actually looks as thoroughly kissed as she feels. To her dismay, she does. Her face is still flushed, her lip gloss is a thing of the past, and her eyes seem to be twice their usual size. She can't do anything about her dilated pupils (God, she thought that kind of thing only happened in bodice ripper romance novels) or the stupid blushing business, but she can at least repair her lipstick. Because nothing gets past Ruby. Nothing.

"You'd better have a good excuse for leaving me sitting here all on my lonesome," Ruby has the nerve to pout when Emma finally reaches their usual booth. "It's been ten minutes of social mortification."

"Sorry for being late." Emma gives the other woman a quick one-armed hug, then looks pointedly at the two goggle-eyed male bar staff who are beating a hasty retreat from the booth, then at the two luridly coloured cocktails sitting on the table, cocktails she has no doubt are on the house. "I can see how neglected and unappreciated you must have felt."

Ruby's blood-red lips curl in a smirking sneer that would have done Billy Idol proud. "They must have felt sorry for me." As Emma slides into the opposite side of the bar, she notes that tonight's outfit consists of a scarlet patent jacket and a black gauzy top that's cut so low Emma's surprised there aren't more free drinks awaiting her arrival. Ruby looks, as always, beyond amazing and a little scary and, as always, Emma feels a little like a peahen hanging out with a bird of paradise.

The feeling passes, though, as it always does, but really, she wants to smack herself for wearing her red dress to work today. Unlike Ruby, who was born to wear red, Emma always feels as though she's trying too hard, her worst fears confirmed when Ruby slides one of the tall cocktail glasses across the table towards her and gives her an approving nod. "Now we're talking." She snaps her teeth over the end of the straw bobbing in her own cocktail. "You've got a much better chance of snagging a handsome bad boy when you're not wearing one of those neck-to-knee black suits."

_That's what you think_, Emma tells her silently, then flashes her friend a bright smile as she reaches for her glass. "Thanks for the fashion advice, as always, but I'm not looking to snag a bad boy."

Ruby's left eyebrow almost reaches her hairline. "Oh, that's right, you want the whole package." Her friend drums her crimson fingernails on the top of the wooden table, keeping time with her sing-song words. "The bad boy who's a good man, a diamond in the rough."

Emma feels her face grow warm. Her friend has no idea how close she's just come to hitting the proverbial nail on the head. "Enough about me," she says cheerfully, knowing the best way to deflect Ruby's uncanny sixth sense is to distract her with talk of her own personal life. "How was your date with what's-his-name?"

To a third party, this might sound rude, almost disinterested, but Ruby has been her friend for a long time, ever since Emma worked a summer at Granny Lucas's café in Portland, and they stopped standing on ceremony a long time ago. If Ruby ever decides to date a man more than once, then Emma will remember his name. Until then, what's-his-name it is.

"His name is Billy and he's a mechanic." Ruby's wide smile, usually so take-no-prisoners, suddenly seems almost coy. "I like him," she adds with a nonchalance that wouldn't fool a blind mouse, and Emma smiles.

_Well, this is something new._ "Is that the sound of a second date I hear?"

Ruby shrugs, draining her cocktail to the halfway mark. "Maybe. He's really shy." She leans forward, her elbows on the table, a puzzled frown tugging at her dark eyebrows. "It's crazy, but I think he was a little scared of me."

Emma looks at her friend, trying to imagine Billy the shy mechanic doing his best to keep up with Ruby Lucas, and feels a pang of sympathy for a guy she's never met. "Imagine that."

The next two hours pass by in an enjoyable blur of gossip and deep-fried bar snacks and no small amount of alcohol, although Emma puts an end to her drinking around eight and switches to mineral water. Ruby eyes her suspiciously across the expanse of potato skins and buffalo wings. "It's Friday night, since when are you such a lightweight?"

Emma hesitates, because once she shares her news, she'll never hear the end of it, but it seems that the four cocktails she has had have done their work. "Since I have a date tomorrow night."

The half-finished baskets of food are pushed to one side, and for a moment Emma thinks that her friend might actually climb over the table in her excitement. "Get _out_."

Luckily, the bar is crowded, and Ruby's shriek doesn't turn a single head, but Emma still feels like sinking down in her seat. "It's not as though I never go on dates, you know."

Ruby gives her a long-suffering look. "It's been four months."

Emma blinks. It can't have been four months. "No, I'm sure I-" Frowning, she tries to remember the last date she'd had. It must have been that guy Mitchell from the gym, the one who turned out to not be quite as divorced as he said he was. The one who now goes to a different gym, she adds with grim satisfaction. _Bastard. _

"Earth to Emma." Five red talons wiggle in front of her face, and she looks up at her friend with a start. Ruby is gazing at her with something that looks a lot like sympathy, and she scowls.

"Okay, so it's been a while," she admits, and Ruby practically rubs her hands together with glee.

"Tell me everything."

Emma takes a deep breath, and gets the worst part out of the way first. "He's one of our senior associates."

Ruby's eyes widen. "Uh oh."

Emma takes a sip of her sparkling water, wishing it was something stronger. "I know what you're thinking, but it'll be fine."

"But you work together." Her friend looks concerned. "What happens when it all goes pear-shaped? You'll have to skulk around the hallways trying to avoid each other."

Emma feels her mouth straighten into a churlish line, because Ruby's just shone a big fat light into the dark corners of her own concerns. "Who says it's going to go pear-shaped?"

"Emma-" Ruby reaches out across the table to grab her hand, squeezing it tightly, as if that might take the sting out of her words. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're worse than I am when it comes to finding someone who ticks all the boxes on your list."

"Seriously?' Gently extracting her hand from her friend's grip, Emma sits back in her chair and crosses her arms across her chest. "I haven't even had one date with the guy yet and you've already got me sneaking around the office trying to avoid awkward eye contact."

Ruby slides out of her side of the booth and, a few seconds later, is giving Emma a repentant hug. "I'm sorry." Emma hears her inhale, then her friend pulls back, her eyes widening dramatically. "Excuse me, but why do you smell like men's aftershave?"

_Crap._

She opens her mouth, and Ruby holds up her hand. "I'm going to the bathroom, and when I come back, you are going to explain yourself, young lady."

Fastest bathroom visit on record, Emma thinks with amusement a moment later as Ruby sashays through the crowd towards their booth. Two fresh club sodas are clunked onto the table, then her friend is sitting opposite her and fixing her with a dark, steely gaze that almost makes Emma squirm. She knows Ruby loves being part of the fashion world, but if she ever decided on a career change, law might not be a bad idea. "Tell me everything," her friend says for the second time that night, and this time, Emma actually does.

Over the next thirty minutes, it all comes tumbling out. The laser tag, the kiss, the photocopying, the accidental coffee meeting, the saying yes to a date, asking him to her apartment, even the shack burgers and the stealing of the cheese fries.

Ruby doesn't say a word throughout the recital (although her bright red mouth does drop open when Emma mentions the stolen laser tag kiss), and it's not until Emma pauses for breath (after a quick summary of their email conversation) that she pounces. "That's all very interesting, but none of it explains why you smell like men's aftershave."

If there was a surgical procedure that could stop you from blushing, Emma thinks, she might seriously consider it, because this is getting ridiculous. She briefly considers clunking her forehead down onto her crossed arms on the table to hide her face, but she's trying to break that particular childhood habit. Reminding herself that she's a fucking adult, she takes a deep breath. "We left work at the same time tonight."

She's never noticed before today just how eloquently sarcastic Ruby's eyebrows can be. "And somehow his aftershave - which is very nice, by the way - magically ended up on your hair and your cheek as you were walking out of the building."

God, she's like a dog with a bone. "Well, we got to talking and then he apologised for kissing me."

"And then?"

Emma flings up her hands in defeat. "Then I kissed him, okay?"

Her friend looks as though she's about to burst with pride. "In the middle of the street?"

Sighing, Emma gives into the temptation to clunk her head softly onto the table. Surely, she can be excused, just this once. "Yes."

"Tongue?"

Emma's belly clenches at the question. Her answer might be muffled, but she can still hear the embarrassment in her voice. "Oh, God, _please_ stop talking."

"I'll take that as a yes."

The smug triumph in Ruby's voice has Emma straightening up and pressing her palms against her hot face. "You know, we're here to talk about your latest date."

Ruby's dark eyes are sparkling. "But we always do that." She picks up one of the club sodas and holds it aloft in a toast. "This is way more interesting." After clinking her glass against Emma's, she leans forward, her expression avid. "So, date night at your place. Sounds cosy."

Emma shrugs, wondering how much longer this little interrogation will be. "It seemed like a good idea."

Ruby purses her lips. "When's the last time you had a first date on your own territory?"

Emma does her best to glare at her friend, because they both know the answer to that one. "Never."

"So what's different about this guy?"

Emma shrugs again. "I can't explain." She hesitates, then decides maybe if she tries to explain it to Ruby, she might understand it better herself. "He wanted to take me out to dinner, but I didn't want to be bothered with all that messing about with taxis and waiters and wine lists." She idly picks at her bar coaster with her thumb nail, making a vague mental note that she really does need to redo her nail polish. "I guess I wanted to see if he was a 'takeout and DVD' kind of person."

Ruby nods, smiling that knowing smile that usually precedes a particularly pointed conversational bite to the jugular. "Which is great, because now you know that he is, but you do realise you've kinda skipped a few important steps, right?"

"I know."

"Well, what is your plan with this one? Take him for a test drive and send him on his way?" The knowing smile is back. "Or are we talking romantic weekends away in the Hamptons by the end of next month?"

There are times when Emma really, really wishes that Ruby was less intuitive, and this is definitely one of them. She doesn't know what she wants to happen after tonight, but the fact that she's even contemplated an 'afterwards' is a departure from her usual MO, and that makes her nervous. "I haven't actually figured that out yet."

"Hmm." Her friend finishes off her club soda, and sets the glass down with a clunk. "Maybe you'd better think about it before tomorrow night, or else the poor guy won't know which way is up." She nods at Emma's glass. "Drink up, then you need to go home and get your beauty sleep." She flashes Emma a wolfish grin. "Should we make a time for post-mortem drinks on Sunday now, or do you think you'll still be tied up with Mr Senior Associate?"

Emma downs half the glass of soda, then gives her friend a tight smile. "I'm going home now, but not because you told me to." She looks pointedly at her watch. "Don't you have early brunch with Granny tomorrow?"

"Uh-huh." Ruby straightens her jacket, flipping her dark chocolate hair over her shoulders. "She wants to go spy on the new fancy deli that's opened up near my place and steal all their ideas to take back home with her."

Emma laughs as she starts to slide out of the booth. "I love your grandmother."

Her friend makes a face as she gets to her feet. "Easy for you to say, you're not being nagged by Skype three times a week about finding a nice boy and settling down."

"Like grandmother, like granddaughter," Emma mutters, then pushes away the fleeting resentment. She knows Ruby only has her best interests at heart, although she's not sure how questions about tongue kissing factor into that. "Say hi to her for me, okay?"

Ruby rolls her eyes. "If I can get a word in edgeways, sure."

They go through their usual departure routine (the bouncer flags down a taxi, Ruby sends a text to her granny with the car number, Emma drops Ruby off at her place first, then travels the last ten minutes or so alone) and it's not long before Emma is kicking off her high heels with a groan of relief and tottering down her hallway to the kitchen. She's not hungry, not after all those bar snacks, but she feels the need for more water. After snagging a bottle from the fridge, she flicks Ruby through a quick text - home safe, will call you on Sunday – and rolls her eyes at the tongue waving emoticon that Ruby sends in reply.

Sinking down onto her couch, she gazes around her living room, trying to imagine Killian Jones within its walls. She knows the cosy vibe her old co-op's got going on isn't to everyone's taste, but she's been renting this place for almost five years and it's become more of a home than anywhere else she's ever lived. Frowning at the dust and piles of old magazines on her coffee table, she remembers with a jolt that she'd totally meant to clean and tidy during the week so she didn't have to spend hours doing it tomorrow.

At least her bedroom's already tidy, she muses, then snatches the thought back, her heart doing an odd little dance against her ribs. Is she seriously entertaining the idea of sleeping with Killian Jones tomorrow night or is she just caught up in the lingering after-effects of that kiss?

Putting her half-finished bottle of water back into the fridge, she heads to the bathroom, avoiding her reflection's mocking gaze as she goes through the usual rituals, because she already knows the answer to her own question.

Of course she's considering sleeping with him. She's careful, not comatose, and if the two kisses they've shared at any indication, she has no doubt they'll scorch a sheet or two if things do head in that direction. Maybe it's because it's been way too long since she was last with someone (the not-actually-divorced-ooops-sorry Mitchell didn't even get to second base four months ago, thank God) but simply imagining what it would be like to have Killian touch her is enough to make her knees buckle and a hot flutter of anticipation dart through in her belly.

Maybe she should just go for it, she thinks. Get it out of the way and out of her system, and then everything can go back to normal. They're both adults, and he's obviously comfortable with the notion of sleeping with people without getting caught up in any messy post-sex turmoil. The question is, would she be okay with him moving on from her as quickly as she usually moves on from her own conquests?

Not bothering to dignify that with an answer, even to herself, she flick off the lights and crawls into bed, stretching one hand out to touch the empty space beside her. No one's ever stayed the night, not in this apartment anyway, and for the first time in a long time, that makes her almost wistful rather than smug. She rolls over with a loud sigh, already resigned to the certainty that she'll be putting condoms on tomorrow morning's grocery list. No point tempting fate, after all.

Much to her relief, thanks to those four cocktails she'd drunk with Ruby, there's no lying awake staring at the ceiling tonight. Her last thought before she slips into slumber is that maybe she should put those new sheets on the bed too, just in case, and even half-asleep, she knows she's in real trouble here.

* * *

Despite the fact that she's been on tenterhooks waiting for the intercom to buzz for the last hour (okay, maybe longer than that), when it finally happens, she almost jumps out of her skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, she runs her hands through her hair one last time, then presses the intercom button.

"Hello?"

At first all she hears is background street noise, then a distinctive clearing of a male throat. "Sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but I need to speak to a lawyer."

She grins. "Sorry, I don't do criminal law."

She hears him laugh. "We could do this all night, but that would be a terrible waste of Pad Khee Mao."

"I agree." She presses the security code, then hears the connecting buzz. "You're in."

From experience, it should only take him a moment to reach her front door, which gives her one last chance to check her reflection and panic over what she's wearing. Two hours ago, her choice of black leggings, black ballet flats and silky blue shirt (and yes, damn him, matching black underwear) had seemed fine, but now she hates every single thing –

The knock on her door puts an end to her ridiculous dithering, and she counts to five before she opens the door. It wouldn't be good for him to suspect she's literally been leaning up against it, waiting for him to knock.

When she opens the door, she feels as though the wind's been knocked out her. She's seen him in casual clothes once before - the Sunday he'd helped her in the office - but she hadn't really seen him that day, not like she does now. Now, as she takes in his faded jeans and black buttoned down shirt, she wonders how the hell she ever thought she didn't find him attractive. As always, he's sporting a three-day growth, the dark stubble making his eyes look even more blue than usual, and as he shifts the bag he's carrying from one hand to the other, she sees a glint of silver at his throat. He smiles, teeth white against his dark beard, and her stomach flips over. "Hi."

"Hi." His gaze sweeps over her from head to toe with obvious appreciation, lingering on her ballet flats before he flashes her a mischievous smile. Of course, he would notice she's much shorter in real life than she is at the office, and she has the sudden urge to shuffle her feet. "I believe you put in an order for some home delivery?"

"You bet." She grins. "Right on time, too. I'm impressed." She steps back and lets him into the apartment, doing her best to stop herself staring at the back view as he passes her (seriously, those jeans) by checking out the very large purple plastic bag he's carrying instead. His aftershave (the very same one that Ruby had sniffed out last night) teases her nose, mingling with the scent of lemongrass and basil from the takeout. She's not sure which is making her mouth water more. "Kitchen's straight through there."

He walks slowly ahead of her, his head turning from side to side as he takes in his surroundings, and okay, now she is blatantly staring at his ass, but come on. She'd like to see a jury in the land convict her. As he carefully hoists the plastic bag on her freshly-cleared counter top, she feels her eyes widen, because he seems to have ordered half the menu. "So, how many people did you invite to join us for dinner?"

He darts her a sheepish look, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, I wasn't sure what you'd like, so-" He gestures to the bulging plastic bag with a helpless hand, and she can't help laughing.

"So you got one of everything?"

Smiling, he leans one hip against the counter top, folding his arms across his chest. "I had to do something to compete with those cheese fries you bought for me."

Now that he's actually here in her apartment, the reality of his presence is so much more overwhelming than the theory of inviting him over that she's not quite sure where to start. Actually, she knows exactly where she'd like to start and it's not with dinner, and maybe that's not the wisest course of action right now. Mirroring his stance, she leans against the counter and nods at the bag of takeout. "Thank you for bringing dinner."

"It was my pleasure." Dropping his arms to his sides, he takes a step towards her, and she holds her breath, but apparently he's only inspecting the bag of food to make sure it's all in one piece. That done, he somehow manages to close the gap between them without appearing to take another step, and maybe once her pulse stops pounding, she'll be impressed with his ninja skill levels. "It's nice to see you again, Swan. It's been too long."

"You saw me last night, remember?"

His bright blue gaze drops to her lips, then lifts to lock with hers once again, and she feels that same magnetic pull that always seems to happen whenever she gets too close to him. "How could I forget?"

He's smiling at her, his eyes searching hers, and she has the feeling he's waiting for her to give him his cue. She opens her mouth to say something – anything, God, even asking him if he wants a drink would do – but nothing comes out. Her lungs feel as though all the air is being squeezed out of them, and her little galley kitchen suddenly seems very small with him in it. Beneath her clothes, her skin feels itchy, prickling with heat. She looks at his lips, remembering the softness of his mouth, the brush of his beard against her skin, and her whole body feels as though it's crackling with both static energy and the compulsion to simply grab him and not give a damn about the consequences.

"Emma?" He's looking at her now, his hands restless at his sides, his expression faintly beseeching. "Did I say something wrong?"

She knows it's not the first time he's called her by her first name, but tonight it sounds very different on his tongue, and it almost makes her shiver. "No."

Two weeks ago, he'd kissed her. Last night, she'd kissed him. Tonight, though, the playing field is even. His hand comes up to cup her face in the same instant she raises up on her toes, and their lips meet in a soft, almost lazy kiss.

As third kisses go, it's pretty damned good. His lips are warm and firm, his mouth tasting of mint and she might have been content with that - it's such a gentle, sweet thing – if there wasn't one word pounding in her head and in her blood.

_More._

She slides her tongue along the swell of his bottom lip, her belly churning with the split-second of exquisite anticipation that comes in the heartbeat before a kiss changes from sweet to hungry, and he doesn't let her down. His hand slides to the nape of her neck, then his lips part, his tongue curling around hers as he kisses her fiercely, all gentleness burning away in the heat of it, the same heat that's hollowing out an ache between her legs and making her tremble with the need to feel him.

She leans back against the counter top, her hands hard on his hips as she pulls him closer. In the space of a sharply drawn breath, he's there with her, one hand still threaded in her hair, the other on her hip, his touch seeming to burn her through the thin fabric of her clothing. Muttering something under his breath, he gently pins her in place with his hips, and she can't stop the quiet moan that escapes her throat. God, he's already hard and his body is a perfect fit for hers, despite the height difference, the firm ridge of his erection pressing between her thighs with an accuracy that almost has her legs buckling under her. Her breath is burning in her lungs, her breasts tight and aching, and she knows all it would take to push her over the edge would be a few well-timed thrusts. Jesus, how did she get into this state so fast?

It's only when she curls one leg around his and slips her hand in between them with obvious intent that he shows any indication that he's not completely on-board with fast-tracking their evening. His voice is rough, almost sluggish. "Emma, wait."

"I know, the food will get cold." She kisses his throat, smiling against his skin when she feels him shudder. "But I've got a microwave."

He exhales a shaky breath, then catches her exploring hand just as her palm brushes against his belt buckle. His eyes are closed, his voice thready with the same urgency that's buzzing under her skin. "Can we just take a moment? Please?"

Just like the old cliché, his words have the same effect as being doused with cold water. She looks at him, not quite sure she's heard correctly. "Seriously?"

"I know it might be hard to believe, love, but I'm trying to be a gentleman here." He kisses her lightly on the mouth, then eases his body away from hers. Not meeting her eyes, he carefully adjusts his zipper, then runs his hand through his hair. He's breathing hard, his chest rising and falling fast, and she cannot believe that Killian Jones, of all people, has been the one to put the brakes on. "The thing is, Swan, as much as I'd like to sweep you straight off to bed right now, I really don't want you to rush into anything you might come to regret."

She's got goosebumps now, a chill creeping across her hot skin, and she's uncomfortably aware that her nipples are tight and aching and no doubt on display for all the world to see. "And how would you know what I might or might not regret? You barely know me."

Her last words hang in the air between them, mocking her with their irony, and she closes her eyes, last night's conversation with Ruby bouncing around in her head. _Fuck._

"I'm afraid that's the rub of it, love." Even with her eyes closed, she can feel the intensity of his gaze. "Two weeks ago, you could barely bring yourself to breathe the same air as me." He says the words gently, but they still sting. "I meant it when I said I wanted to court you." He touches her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, and she forces herself to open her eyes. "I would like very much to get to know you a lot better, Swan, and I don't wish to alarm you, but I don't think one night's going to be enough for me." His smile is wistful, and it makes her throat feel hot and tight. "But if that's not what you want, that's absolutely fine." His smile falters then, or perhaps that's just her imagination. "If you'd like me to bugger off now that I've finally stopped blathering on, I will."

For someone who talks up a storm for a living, she can't find a single thing to say that can explain the mess of emotion careering around inside her head and her heart. She has no idea how everything got turned upside down so fast. All she knows is that he's looking at her with such tenderness that it almost makes her want to cry, and she thinks maybe she hates him for that. She feels embarrassed and aroused and angry and more than a little confused at how he has managed to read her so well, despite her knee-jerk claim that he barely knows her.

When she says nothing, Killian nods slowly, then drops his hands, taking a half-step back from her. "You know, I wouldn't have thought it possible to mess something up so quickly, but it appears I've set a new record." As if he can't bring himself to stop touching her, he tucks an errant curl behind her ear, his knuckles gentle against her cheek, and it's all she can do not to lean into his touch. "I'm sorry, Swan. Perhaps I should go."

The thought of him leaving, of this (whatever this is) being over before it's even begun, propels her into action. She grabs his arm, wrapping her hands around his wrist. "Don't go." His whole face softens with relief, and he's quick to move back to her side, leaning against the counter top close enough for his shoulder to press against hers. Knowing she's got only one chance to state her case, Emma takes a deep breath. "I'm not very good at this."

"Kissing?" He tilts his head to one side, his lips twitching. "I beg to differ, love."

She knows he's trying to make her smile, and damn him, it almost works. "Dating."

"It's been a while between drinks for me, too." Catching her hand in his, he lifts it to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss to her palm. "Perhaps we can figure it out together."

She curls her fingers around his, marvelling that such a chaste kiss could feel almost as erotic as the breathless one that proceeded it. She knows he's right, things were moving too fast, but God, she's never wanted to throw caution to the wind more in her life. "We should eat. Microwaved noodles are never as good."

His answering smile makes her breath catch in her throat. "Good plan, Swan."

* * *

Surreal doesn't begin to describe the next few hours. Sitting on her couch with him, picking over shared dishes of noodles and stir fries while Grace Kelly scares the living daylights out of Cary Grant with her driving skills, she feels as though she should pinch herself. Despite the fact that she still feels as though she's about to jump out of her skin, it's oddly comfortable. He'd brought along a few bottles of Singha beer as well ("you really do provide the full home delivery service, don't you?"), and she tries to remember the last time she had a first date that involved sipping beer and stealing all the best prawns out of the Pad Thai with her feet up on a coffee table.

She knows he knows what she's doing, but it's not until she's popped the last prawn in her mouth that he shakes his head admiringly. "You're quite the polished food thief, aren't you, Swan?"

Thinking of all the times in her old life when she'd had to fight to get even the smallest piece of whatever was on offer, she merely gives him a cool glance. "Survival of the fittest, Jones."

His gaze sweeps over her, lingering pointedly on her legs and the deep v-neck of her shirt, then he smiles into her eyes. "You've got me on points there, love."

From anyone else, such excessive flirting might be grounds for her patented (or so Ruby claims) cold shoulder, but coming from him, all it does is make her think how much she really wants him to kiss her again. "Well, you'll just have to be quicker off the mark next time."

One dark eyebrow arches. "Next time?" He flashes her a grin, teeth white against his dark stubble as he rests his arm along the back of the couch between them, his fingertips grazing her shoulder. "Are you fishing for a second date, Swan?"

She shifts on the couch until she's facing him, her legs tucked under her. "Maybe."

This time, when he kisses her, she knows neither of them are going to put the brakes on, not this time.

Her palm might still be tingling from that chaste touch of his mouth, but there's nothing chaste about this kiss. It's slick and hard and frantic and desperate and it's exactly what she needs, what she's wanted from the moment he walked through her front door. His tongue tangles with hers as he buries his hands in her hair, tilting back her head, and she opens her mouth to him without a second thought, kissing him back with a hunger that shocks her. Putting one hand on his chest, she pushes him back into the couch, rising up on her knees to straddle him, drowning in the taste and the feel of his mouth on hers and oh, God she wants so much more than kissing.

As though she'd whispered the thought into his mouth, his hands are suddenly on her hips, pulling her down onto him, letting her feel exactly what kissing her has done to him, and a shock of bone-melting desire washes over her. Closing her eyes, she arches her back and rocks into him, another shock of heat blossoming between her legs as he meets her halfway, his hips lifting, his rough groan finding an echo in her own smothered gasp.

With a muttered curse, he tears his mouth away from hers, blazing a trail of kisses down her throat, his beard scraping her skin, making her shiver. Her breasts are aching, nipples drawn up tight and _fuck_, she's aching and wet before he's even really touched her, and if they don't get to her bed soon, she's going to come while she's still sitting in his damned lap with all her clothes on.

She leans back, biting her lip as the change in position has the hard heat of him pressing against her in exactly the right spot, the one that makes her want to simply grind against him until she comes undone in a sobbing heap. "So much for not rushing things," she mutters, and he gives her a shaky smile. He's breathing heavily, his dark hair tousled (when did she do that?) and his lips pink and kiss-swollen, and she wants nothing more than for him to roll her onto her back and fuck her until she can't see or walk straight.

"If it's all the same to you, love, I don't plan on rushing anything this evening." Holding her gaze with his, he skims his hands down her arms, then smooths them upwards over her hips and her stomach, his long fingers gliding over the soft fabric of her shirt. His touch burns her through the thin silk, setting a spark to the kindling lying dormant beneath her skin, and she feels the pounding of her pulse everywhere, in her breasts, the back of her throat, between her legs. When he splays one hand flat over the curve of her ribcage, his thumb resting almost casually in the hollow between her breasts, her whole body is suffused with an anticipation that almost turns her bones to water.

"Tell me something, Swan." He lifts his other hand to touch her face, his palm smooth and warm against her cheek, his thumb tracing her eyebrow. "Do you truly want this?"

She gazes at him, her pulse quickening. She knows he's not talking about sleeping together. He's talking about them. He's talking about the bigger picture, something that both thrills and terrifies her.

"I do." She climbs off his lap awkwardly, once again feeling like that newborn foal, then holds out her hand to him. "On a completely unrelated note, I've just realised you haven't had the full tour of the apartment."

He laughs as he lets her haul him to his feet, and she can taste the smile on his lips when he takes her face in his hands and kisses her so thoroughly she almost forgets her resolve to adjourn to the bedroom. "Lead the way, lass."

Her apartment is far from large, but it still takes them a few minutes to get to her bedroom. By the time they finally reach her bedroom door, he's managed to kiss every inch of her neck and her goosebumps have freaking goosebumps. "Okay, so this is my room," she murmurs as she steps away from his dangerously wandering hands, kicking off her ballet flats and sinks down onto the edge of her bed (and yes, she did put on those brand new sheets this morning). "And that concludes our tour."

He leans against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth curved in a lazy smile. His shirt is untucked, his hair in disarray, and he's looking at her as though he means to devour her whole. The only light in the room comes from her bedside lamp (she'd planned ahead) and the soft glow makes his eyes look impossibly blue. "You know," he drawls as he starts walking towards her, dragging one hand through his already messy hair, "most tours end with a trip to the gift shop."

She shimmies backwards on her bed until she's leaning against the usual pile of pillow overkill, then holds out her hand to him once more. "Well, we'll just have to see what happens, won't we?"

* * *

She has no idea how long they've been kissing.

Time stops mattering the moment she pulls him down onto the bed beside her. He says her name on a rough whisper, his hand cupping the back of her head, pulling her mouth to his. His tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting and taking, asking and answering, and she feels the oddest sensation of her skin dissolving into his.

He kisses her again and again, his mouth tasting her lips, her jaw and the hollow of her throat, his hands gently stroking her arms and her back and her thighs, until the light, brushing pressure through her clothes is almost enough to drive her mad. When he finally lifts his head, she sucks in a welcome breath of cool air, then reaches for the buttons on his shirt. He gives her a smile that makes her feel as though she's the first person to ever do this for him (even though she knows she's damn well not), and she thinks that might just make her want him even more.

He returns the favour, unbutton her shirt carefully, his hands unhurriedly exploring every new inch of skin that he reveals. "Oh, Swan," he finally whispers, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes her belly clench. "You are a bloody glorious creature."

As she fumbles with his buttons, he bends his head to kiss her so thoroughly that it takes her three times as long to unbutton his shirt as it should. His soft chuckle rumbles against her lips as her fingers slide off the last button for the second time, then she's free to explore, sliding her hands over his warm, smooth skin. She dances her fingertips across his stomach, smiling at the skip in his breath as the muscles of his abdomen clench beneath her touch. "Those expensive suits of yours definitely don't show off your best features," she murmurs as she combs her fingers through the crisp hair on his chest, and he flashes her a wicked grin at her breasts, which appear to be on the verge of spilling out of her most expensive black bra.

"I could say the same to you, love." He shrugs out of his shirt, letting it fall to the ground beside the bed, then he's threading his fingers through her hair and gently pulling her mouth to his.

He'd claimed earlier that he was trying to be a gentleman, but there's nothing gentlemanly about the way he's kissing her. He tastes and teases her mouth with his, running his tongue along her teeth, sucking lazily on her bottom lip, kissing her in a way that far surpasses every single one of her illicit daydreams. It's not enough, though, because she wants to feel his skin against hers and maybe it's time she forced the issue.

Sinking her teeth gently into his bottom lip, she rubs her hand over the cool metal of his belt buckle, then the rough fabric of his jeans, finally touching him where he's hard and wanting her. His harsh gasp rings in her ears as he arches into her touch, then his fingers are busy with the back of her bra. A few seconds later, her shirt and bra are on the floor and she's undone too, his mouth devouring hers as he pulls her into his arms, the feel of his chest against her bare breasts making her stomach clench and her breath catch in her throat.

"This isn't a one-time thing." The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, but she doesn't regret them. "I want more than that."

"Good." His mouth is hot on her shoulder, his hand sliding down her belly to cup the growing ache between her legs, and whatever else he might have been intending to say is lost.

"Don't stop," she manages to say as he strokes his thumb along the seam of her leggings, his touch burning through the thin material, applying a maddeningly light pressure. _Jesus. _Feeling the need to claw back some control, she slides her hand between them to palm the heavy ridge of his erection through his jeans. He sucks in a sharp breath, and she squeezes gently, wanting to hear that stifled sound of pleasure a second time.

"You," he says almost accusingly, "are going to be the death of me."

"Not yet, I hope," she shoots back, and he grins.

It all gets a little messy after that, hands tugging at stubborn clothing, mouths sliding over every new inch of bare skin. Finally, she touches the lean muscles of his chest and then presses her mouth against the salty heat of his shoulder as she slips her hand inside the waistband of his boxers, the crisp line of hair on his belly teasing her palm. She watches his face as she touches him, curling her hand around the silken thrust of his erection, and he closes his eyes, his jaw clenched on a groan of pleasure as he arches into her touch.

When he bends his head to her breast, his mouth closing hotly over one tightly beaded nipple, she almost wants to weep. When he dips his hand between her legs, his touch light and teasing, she almost sees stars.

The alcohol she'd drunk earlier seems to have evaporated, leaving her senses clear and focused, the slightest touch sparking against her skin like flint, the smallest details burning themselves into her memory. She touches his face, fingertips dancing over the fine lines at the corner of his vivid eyes, the soft skin of his throat, the sharp brush of his beard, and the internal hum of anticipation grows louder and louder in her ears.

He kisses her gently as he touches the soft heat between her legs, then his fingers are inside her and she's melting from the inside out. A low moan rises up in her throat as she arches against him, lifting her hips to meet the gently determined pressure of his fingers. She buries her face against his shoulder, inhaling the spicy scent of aftershave and warm skin, his hot breath stirring the hair at her temple as he touches her with a single-mindedness that makes her feel as though she's about to dissolve into a thousand molten shards of flesh and bone. When he dips his head to kiss her breasts, the cool silver of his Celtic pendant brushes against her stomach. It's oddly erotic, and she curls her hands into the rumpled bedspread beneath her, desperately trying to anchor herself to solid ground. She can feel herself falling, sinking towards the oblivion of release before she's even had a chance to draw breath, and when she finally falls, she falls harder than she has in a long, long time.

She opens her eyes to find him smiling at her, his eyes glowing as he slowly trails his fingers (they're still slick from her body) over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, making her shiver. "You alright there, Swan?"

In answer, she puts her hand flat on his chest, pushing herself into a sitting position, her knees sinking into the mattress as she moves. He grins up at her through the semi-darkness, his hands coming up to rest on her thighs as she straddles him.

"Why am I not surprised you want to be on top?"

"Shut up," she murmurs as she bends down to kiss his chest, brushing her lips over his heart. "I'm actually trying to decide what I'd like to do to you first," she whispers as she works her way downward, her fingernails digging his thighs as she trails a line of kisses down his stomach. The baby-smooth heat of his erection brushes against her cheek, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

"That's one way to rush things," he mutters in a voice of a man who's just smoked three packs of cigarettes, and she smiles, her mouth open on the soft skin of his belly. "You'll have me out of commission in two minutes flat."

"That sounds like a challenge to me," she teases as she cups him gently, dragging her tongue along the straining length of him, tasting salt and musk and heat. His rough groan is music to her ears, and while she wants nothing more than to watch him fall apart beneath her, maybe she should play fair, at least for tonight. Still, she can't resist tormenting him a moment longer, kissing and licking and tasting until he's literally vibrating at her touch, and it's only when she takes him into her mouth, curling her tongue with deliberate intent that he finally snaps, his voice pleading.

"Swan, _please._"

Regretfully, she presses one last open-mouthed kiss to a particular spot that has him twisting beneath her, then lifts her head to find him looking at her with narrowed, dark eyes.

"Emma." That one whispered word seems to be dragged up from the soles of his feet and she crawls up his body to kiss him. The crisp hair on his chest teases her breasts, his tongue hot and slick as it tangles with hers. Lifting herself up on her elbows, she leans across him to retrieve one of her shiny new condoms in the top drawer of her bedside table, then drops it onto his chest with a mischievous smile.

He shakes his head at her, but he's already reaching for the small foil packet. "The bloody death of me," he says again, and she hooks one leg over his hip, taking the condom from him and reaching down between them.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she breaths as she smooths her hands down the length of him, her mouth going dry as he bucks gently into her touch, filling her palm. _Fuck._

"I'd die a happy man, love," he whispers, then his mouth is on hers, his hands cupping her ass, pulling her closer. She straddles him, closing her eyes as the smooth jut of his erection presses into her thigh. She shifts her hips, needing to feel him somewhere else, somewhere much better. A second later, she's trying to stop herself from moaning as she chases that delicious friction, the hard heat of him rubbing against the slick flesh between her legs.

His hands are between her legs, his body arching like a bow beneath her. "God, Emma, I need-"

She can hardly speak. "Yes, now. Do it now."

He pushes himself up into her with one hard, deep rush of flesh and heat, and she has to grit her teeth to stop herself from crying out, because it's even better than she's let herself imagine. They're still for what feels like an eternity, his body buried deep inside hers, their breathing the only sound in the room. He's barely moved inside her and she can already feel the pressure building, ripples of heat darting through her flesh, across her skin, her pulse pounding in her ears, her wrists, the tips of her breasts. Then he kisses her, his fingers digging into the swell of her ass, and they start to move together

Maybe later she will marvel at the silent synchronicity of their bodies, but at this moment all she knows is the slow slide of his flesh over hers, the tender push and pull of his body inside hers, the pulsing thrum of her blood. When she leans down to kiss him, the crisp hair on his chest teases her breasts, her head filling with the scent of his aftershave and her own perfume, her tongue tasting the salt on his upper lip.

He says her name as though he's praying, and she closes her eyes. It's too much, and yet all she wants is more. "I've been thinking about this," she confesses in a throaty whisper, tasting the salty skin of his throat, hoping her words don't sound like the most clichéd of pillow talk. She doesn't _like_talking during sex, she thinks. What the hell was happening here? "Ever since the night you kissed me."

He kisses her again, fierce and urgent, and she angles her hips as she arches her back, sinking down onto him with agonizing slowness that has her sucking in her breath and him swearing softly. When she lifts her head, he brushes his thumb over her tingling lips, his eyes glowing hotly. "I wanted you long before I kissed you, love."

It doesn't take long for either of them, and later she realises that the whole evening has been a subtle form of foreplay, from the moment he first walked through the door. The tender pressure deep inside her builds and builds, tendrils of heat whispering through her belly, her blood growing thick and sluggish. He kisses her fiercely, his hands strong on her hips as he guides the rhythm of their dance, letting her choose the steps but matching her with every beat, pushing her higher and higher.

When she feels the first trickle of sensation flutter through her, she wraps her arms around him, her mouth pressed hard against his forehead, whispering _please _and_ yes_ over and over again in a voice she barely recognises as her own. A few heartbeats later, she grows still above him, the thick pulse of pleasure starting to shudder through her until she's shaking, choking back a sob.

He kisses her, swallowing her moan of pleasure, rolling his hips slowly, letting her ride out the storm. She thinks she can taste her name on his lips when he kisses her, softly at first, then harder, deeper, his tongue sweeping her mouth as his hands move to her thighs, then her breasts. She shifts against him, feeling him harden inside her, feeling the faint echo of arousal shiver through her flesh.

She's not sure who moves first, but they're rolling, his weight suddenly pressing her into the soft mattress, his body still buried inside hers. Cradled between her thighs, he takes her face in his hands, kissing her again and again, his tongue teasing hers with lush, leisurely strokes. His hips rock gently against hers at first, as though trying to pace himself, but very soon she's clinging to him as they twist together, his breath harsh in her ear as he buries himself inside her again and again, the muscles in his arms straining as he rises over her.

When he comes, he mouths a gasp of completion against the curve of her shoulder, his breath hot on her skin as his body pulses thick and deep inside her.

Wrapping her arms around his sweat dampened shoulders, she pulls him closer, welcoming the weight of his body, the solid feel of him against her pounding heart. After a long moment, he eases his weight off her and sprawls out next to her, his chest heaving, one hand over his eyes. When he doesn't speak, she smooths her hand over the jut of his hipbone, enjoying the sleek brush of his skin against her fingertips.

Finally, he stirs beside her, rolling onto his side to face her. "God, that was -" His eyes dark with an emotion she doesn't dare begin to analyze, he lifts his hand to her face, and she leans into the touch of his warm palm. "That was bloody amazing."

If she wasn't already glowing from head to toe, maybe she'd blush. "Not bad for our first attempt," she hedges teasingly, and his smile seems to stretch from ear to ear.

"Careful, love." He gently pinches her chin, teasing the dimple she so hated when she was a child. "You don't want to inflate my ego too much."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Tugging the covers up over them, she stretches out beside him, smiling when she feels the soothing brush of his fingertips down her spine, stroking from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. His words, though, have the smile slipping from her face.

"Perhaps I should let you get some sleep."

The uncertainty in his voice makes her heart hurt, but she can't blame him, considering the roundabout route they took to get to this moment. Reaching back, she finds his hand, pulling it over her to rest on her belly, threading her fingers through his. "I'd like to get some sleep with _you_, if that's okay."

She hears the smile in his voice. "I suppose I could stay a while."

Breathing out a sigh, she closes her eyes at the feel of his warm chest against her back, knowing that he was right, that one night was _never_going to be enough, and that there's a very good chance he will never be out of her system. She waits for the thought to send the usual quiver of terror through her, and when it doesn't come, she _knows_. "Good."


	6. Chapter 6

He opens his eyes, feeling that odd sense of disorientation that only comes in the wake of being sinfully comfortable yet knowing you are not in your own bed. The room is in darkness, pale moonlight streaming through the window (not his window, his room faces East), and there is a warm, soft form pressed against him from shoulder to knee.

He breathes out, feeling his eyes widen in the darkness as everything comes back to him in one vivid blur. He's in Emma Swan's bed, and if her bare arse wasn't currently deliciously wedged against his hip, he'd be pinching himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. All the same, he can't help wondering, did the previous evening truly happen, or has he simply spent so many hours fantasising about Emma that the line between reality and fiction has finally blurred?

He stretches, biting back his groan of pleasure as soft sheets (far better than anything he's ever put on his own bed) brush against his skin, and knows that it was all very, very real. He thinks of the delicious silken grip of her body, hot and tight, fluttering around his fingers and his cock, the way she'd said his name when she'd come, how she'd asked him to stay the night.

Emma Swan asked him to stay the night.

_Well now, _he thinks. _This is quite the development._

He lies awake, now painfully aware of the naked woman lying beside him. She's sleeping peacefully, and he's not the type of man to rouse a woman from sleep simply because he's got an itch to scratch. Adding to his restlessness, despite the fact he'd only had one beer the night before, his throat is achingly dry, and he knows he won't be able to get back to sleep until he's gone in search of water. Holding his breath, he swings his legs out of bed, not wanting to disturb his sleeping companion, and pads bare-arsed through her apartment in search of the kitchen.

He finds the chilled water in the refrigerator and a clean glass, and is halfway through slaking his thirst when her soft voice slices through the still night air.

"Help you with something?"

His last mouthful of water almost sticks in his throat. His fingers suddenly all thumbs, it's all he can do to get the glass to the safety of the sink. "Fucking hell, Swan."

"Such language so early in the morning," she drawls as she saunters towards him, her voice heavy with amusement and something else, something much more interesting.

She hasn't bothered to dress either, and there is something so incredibly erotic about seeing her stark naked in the middle of her kitchen that almost brings him to his knees. Which, now that he thinks of it, sounds like a marvellous idea, because there's more than one way of slaking one's thirst. He holds out his hand to her, knowing the moonlight coming through the windows is enough to let her see him. "Come here."

She says nothing as she walks to stand beside him, but he sees the awareness of his intent glowing in her eyes. It takes no effort at all to lift her onto the counter top, her fingernails digging into his biceps as he kisses her breasts in turn, her nipples pebbled tight against his tongue. He kisses his way down her belly, smiling at the way her breathing changes as his mouth reaches the gentle swell of her pubic bone. "Killian-"

"Hush, Swan." He sinks to his knees, drawing her legs up over his shoulders, loving her sharp gasp as he rubs his whiskered chin against her thigh. "Just relax." The tiles are cool beneath his knees, but the heat of her beneath his mouth takes the chill away. God help him, she is more delicious in reality than his dreams could ever have hoped. Salt and musk and sex, her flesh slippery with desire and his kisses, slick beneath his tongue as her body arches above him, her heels drumming a tattoo of exquisite anguish against his back. She mutters his name again and again, the sound of her pleasure rising about the roar of his pulse in his ears, his breath harsh and laboured against her trembling sex. The muscles in her thighs begin to quiver, and he knows she's about to lose control in the very best possible way.

He's right, and she's a bloody glorious sight when she comes.

She's even more glorious afterwards when she wraps her legs around his waist and kisses him until his whole body is thrumming with the need to bury himself inside her, her hand sliding up and down the slippery length of his cock, pulling him hard against her belly until he almost sees stars. "Bed?" He barely recognises his own voice, and his throat tightens even more when her answer is to take his earlobe between her teeth, her breath hot on his skin.

"Yes."

It's not slow and tender this time. It's fucking, pure and simple, and he feels as though his spine is rattling with the force of each thrust. Her fingers are twisted in his hair, her grip almost painfully tight, her mouth as hot and fierce as the tight heat of her sex, her breasts quivering against his chest with every roll of their bodies. It's a race to see who can make the other yield, and when she finally shoves her hand between them where he's buried inside her, her fingers sliding over both herself and his own aching flesh, he senses he's about to lose the battle.

He puts his hand over hers, his thumb finding and pressing, just hard enough to make her gasp and push back against him. Her body stills beneath his, then she's gone, a harsh sob tearing from her as she tosses back her head, taking him with her, her name the only thing he knows as he chases her over the edge of anticipation into the kind of mad pleasure that that's only supposed to come along once in a bloody blue moon, not three times in one night. Blissful, boneless oblivion follows, wrapped in soft linen and soft skin.

The next thing he knows, she's kissing him awake with a mouth that tastes of orange juice and toothpaste, telling him she's been awake for an hour and that she knows he's a few years older than her, but seriously, where's his stamina?

He makes a show of rubbing his eyes, but knows he's already gazing at her like a lovesick fool. "That's like punching someone in the face and then asking them why their nose is bleeding, love."

She makes a face at his analogy, but seems to concede the point. Reaching down, she runs one hand through his hair, amusing herself by making it look even more wretched than he's sure it already does. To his disappointment, she's already dressed, so it appears she won't be climbing back into bed. "Are you hungry?" He grins at that, and she holds up a warning finger. "For food. Seriously, are you that predictable?"

He trails one hand up her arm, fingertips delving beneath the sleeve of her t-shirt. "Admit it, Swan, you'd be disappointed if I wasn't." He sees her swallow hard, then she grabs his hand and lifts it to her mouth, giving his knuckles a quick kiss.

"I'm just reading some work emails, so if you want to use the shower-"

He rubs his thumb over the swell of her bottom lip, and her breath hitches. "Given your fetching ensemble, I'm assuming it's too late to ask you to join me?"

She's tempted, he can see it in her face, but she still shakes her head. "Maybe next time you won't sleep so late." She gently bites his thumb, and she might as well have stuck her hand between his legs, given the jolt of desire that shudders through him. "See you in the kitchen, Jones."

It's hard to feel disappointed when the warmth of her smile makes his skin buzz.

After he's showered and dressed (he didn't linger in her bathroom, too aware of the danger of imagining her joining him amidst the steam) she insists on making him a grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast, as if to test his earlier claim enjoying them. When he spies the suspiciously clean espresso machine tucked into a corner, she admits to hardly ever using it, preferring to visit the coffee shop on the next corner, but is happy to let him tinker with it until he manages to produce a drinkable brew for them both.

"So." She eyes him over the top of her coffee mug, her feet bumping against his beneath her wooden kitchen table. "Here we are."

"Indeed we are." He rubs his hand over his beard, his gut tightening at the memory of rubbing said beard against her soft skin. "Did you have plans for today?" Personally, he'd planned nothing more than lazing about his apartment and catching up on some work that could easily wait until Monday, so he can't help his twinge of disappointment when she nods, but her obvious regret takes the sting out of her answer.

"I've got a heap of reading to do for a trial that starts next month, and Sunday is usually the day I call my parents, so-"

"Say no more, Swan." Finishing his coffee, he slowly rolls his shoulders, feeling pleasantly sore in muscles he'd forgotten he had, and suspects he will be thinking of her with every twinge in the coming days. "Are you free next Saturday night, love?"

Furrowing her brow, she taps one finger against her lips, as if he's just asked her to recite the Magna Carta. _Bloody, bewitching woman._ "Well, that depends. What did you have in mind?"

"I thought I might actually take you _out _to dinner." He slides his foot between hers, letting his calf rub against hers. A few days ago, the same contact during their rushed lunch had left him shifting in his seat, and it seems this morning will be no different. After last night, he should be sated beyond belief, but it appears his body has other ideas. "And perhaps afterwards I could give you a tour of _my _apartment."

"I'd like that," she tells him with a smile, and the sight of her lovely face, unadorned by the slightest hint of make-up, her long hair pulled back in a haphazard ponytail, makes his chest tighten. Perhaps he will still pinch himself after all.

He leaves her apartment just after eleven. Standing inside her front door, she kisses him goodbye three times, and after the third kiss, he literally has to take a step back from her. "Swan, if you keep farewelling me like _that_, I might never leave this apartment."

A delicate blush steals across her face. "Sorry, it's just-" She lifts her hands, a sheepish smile touching her lips. "I don't know how to do this, remember?"

He grins. "It's quite simple, love. Kiss me goodbye one last time, I'll drag my sorry arse out your door, and we'll see each other at the office tomorrow." He brushes his knuckles across her cheek, knowing his dreams tonight will be on the high-definition filthy side, and he can't say he's sorry about it. "Perhaps we could grab some lunch?"

Her eyes light up, as if such a practical application of their new arrangement suddenly makes everything seem more simple than complicated. "Sounds good."

Two kisses later, he's finally on the other side of the door, leaving her to her Sunday plans and himself to head home and rattle around his apartment, pretending he's not reliving every single heated moment they'd shared. He does manage to compose a text thanking her for letting him share her lovely bed and not frowning on his takeout menu choices, to which she sends a reply telling him that he is very welcome, the leftovers will be her dinner for the next two nights and she's impressed he hung up his towel so neatly after his shower.

His dreams that night are indeed lurid, but at least this time when he wakes with a start at six o'clock the next morning, he knows it's only a few days until he can experience the real deal all over again. Rolling over, he sees he already has an incoming text from one Emma Swan. Grinning, he swipes his thumb over the screen, his eyes widening when his sleepy eyes focus on the words she'd sent him at four o'clock that morning.

_**Bed's too big. What is this bullshit? Damn you, Jones. x**_

He flops back onto his pillow, his phone still clutched in his hand, a smile still plastered on his face. She truly is going to be the death of him and, just as he'd told her last night, he'll die a happy man.

* * *

And just like that, they're dating.

Dating.

_Bloody hell._

It's such a teenaged concept, and yet every time he considers the label, he wants to send out a bloody all-personnel memo informing the world. On that side of things, however, they're keeping a low profile, unwilling to provide grist for the office gossip mill, but that's easier said than done. More than one colleague has given him the universal signal for 'well done, mate' when they've spied Emma strolling through the hallways, and his standard 'no comment' response doesn't seem to be doing the trick.

The first six weeks are what could cautiously be described as blissful. They're both busy, but manage to snatch a lunch hour together at least twice a week. It goes without saying that their email exchange quota is officially out of control, but they're careful to keep their interactions at work as professional as possible. No point entertaining any IT peons doing routine server maintenance, after all. They do indeed have that second date, during which they actually go to a restaurant like mature adults, and afterwards she gets the chance to explore _his_ apartment. Needless to say, they christen a few flat surfaces at his place too (as well as one or two vertical ones) and she declares herself officially satisfied with his king-sized bed as an alternate sleeping location.

The sex, he has to admit, is phenomenal. It's the first time in his life that reality has actually surprised fantasy, and he's still not sure what he's done to deserve such a thing. Throw in that the woman in question is beautiful and prickly and clever and quick-witted and drives him insane in the best possible way, and he's still fighting the urge to pinch himself.

He meets her friend Ruby, who could be described as a perfumed force of nature. Big eyes, big smile, big hair and, he quickly realises, just as a big heart. It's obvious she cares about her friend Emma a great deal and, to his relief, she appears to approve of him, or perhaps it's the smile on Emma's face that meets with her approval. Either way, he's pleased to have passed that particular test.

As for his own friends, well, she already knows his work colleagues. Perhaps it's time he faced the unhappy fact that he'd never bothered to forge a social network when he'd moved to New York. He's not one for self-analysis, but he knows the symptoms of a man who doesn't want to put down any roots well enough.

Perhaps, he thinks, now that he has a real reason to put down said roots, that might change. He knows she's skittish when it comes to commitment (various tidbits regarding her past relationships have gradually been eeked out, usually after she's had a glass of wine) but as the days go past and she shows no sign of turning tail and running, he can't help but that perhaps this is finally _it._

Their first relationship hurdle comes just after their six week anniversary. The two week-long business development trip to London and Dublin at Marco's behest is not something he can turn down. It's been in the pipeline for months, this trip to visit several of their international insurance clients, and yet when Marco cheerfully announces they finally have a confirmed itinerary, it comes as something of a shock. Not, of course, that he lets Marco know. "Looking forward to it, mate." He claps the older man on the shoulder. "We'll remind them just how much they need us to keep them on the straight and narrow."

That night, Emma pats him on the head when he breaks the news to her. "I saw the reminder on your phone a week ago," she tells him, shaking her head. "You're really not good with calendars, are you?"

He catches her up in his embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "I can't think how it slipped my mind," he shoots back, deliberately scraping his whiskered chin along her throat until she makes that delectable squeak of protest, her skin raised in tiny goosebumps. "Of course, it is possible I've had something else to occupy my thoughts lately."

He flies out with Marco on a Thursday morning, and they spend the next ten days shaking hands and visiting boardrooms and shipyards. At night, they're fed and watered and there's more shaking of hands and making of deals, and while Skype makes being away from Emma almost bearable, it's the longest fucking two weeks of his life. Sitting alone in that darkened hotel room on his last night in the UK, after she's blown him a kiss goodnight and the screen has gone dark, he knows he's officially crossed the point of no return when it comes to Emma Swan. It may only have been a few weeks since they first slept together, but he is so far gone that it could have been six months, six years. He's in this for the long haul, and the sooner he gets home and tells her how much she means to him, the better.

Her text arrives just as he and Marco are heading to the airport, and he pulls his beeping phone from his pocket with an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I just need to-"

The older man gives him an indulgent smile, waving away his apology, and not for the first time, Killian wonders how obvious he's being when it comes to his new relationship.

_I know you'll probably want to just get home and sleep in your own bed tonight, but I'm offering homemade Mexican food (okay, so maybe it will be takeout) and your favourite half of the couch for some quality home renovation show watching. x_

He doesn't have to think twice. After parting ways with Marco at JFK, he stops off at his apartment long enough to shower and check his mail and pack an overnight bag (he has no plants, so thankfully, he isn't greeted by the news of their demise. Perhaps, he muses, thinking of the greenery in Emma's apartment, he should get some, though?). It's just after nine on a Friday night by the time he buzzes the intercom at Emma's co-op, and just when he thinks the jetlag might burrow a hole in his head, he hears her voice. "You really chose me over your king-sized bed? I'm flattered."

"Buzz me up, Swan. I think I have just enough strength to climb the stairs," he tells the intercom. "After that, I can't promise anything."

Her wicked laugh does wonders for his tired soul. "I'll take my chances."

She's waiting at the top of the stairs for him, leaning against her open front door. Dressed in a simple sleeveless shirt and jeans, her feet bare, her hair a messy tumble, she's the best thing he's seen in, well, ever. He pauses on the threshold, almost swaying on the spot after the effort of climbing the stairs. Turns out, he wasn't entirely joking about the jetlag. "Just so we're absolutely clear, you mentioned Mexican food?"

She steps back, letting him pass into the apartment, then closes the front door behind her with a determined _thunk. _Dropping his overnight bag, he turns in time to see her pursing her lips, one finger toying with the corner of her mouth. "Amongst other things." She steps forward at the same moment he does, resting her hands flat on his chest, his pulse quickening as the subtle heat of her body teases his senses.

"Now then, Swan," he murmurs after a moment's grace, the words feeling thick and slow on his tongue as he smooths his palms over the curve of her hips. Her shirt barely skims the waistband of her faded jeans, and he can no more stop himself from brushing his thumbs over the warm skin of her belly than he can stop himself from drawing another breath. She gazes at him, her lips parting softly, temptation personified, and his voice seems to vibrate in the back of his throat. "Where _were _we?"

She swallows hard, her hands coming up to rest lightly on his shoulders. He can smell her perfume, a spicy scent he remembers tasting in the crook of her neck and the hollow of her breasts. She smiles, a teasing curving of her mouth, and he feels the shock of it ripple through his body from head to toe. "It's been two long weeks, Jones. Maybe you should refresh my memory?"

Unable to bear not touching her for a second longer, he pulls her closer, sliding his arms around her back, his hands splayed wide across the swell of her bottom. Her arms wind around his neck as she leans into him, her breasts soft and warm against his chest, her hips pressing against his with a precision that makes his blood burn. Burying his nose in the soft tumble of her hair, he inhales coconut shampoo and warm skin and wonders if he will be able to let her go long enough to move away from the front door. "God, I've missed you."

She moves languidly against him, rubbing her cheek gently against his. "You shaved," she murmurs almost accusingly.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

She chuckles, and when she speaks again, her voice quivers softly with laughter. "Did you shine your shoes as well?"

As they both look down at his battered Docs, he grins, wondering how the hell he managed to survive two weeks from this woman. "No. I'll have to remember that one for next time."

Leaning back in the circle of his arms, she studies his face intently, her gaze dropping to his mouth before lifting to meet his. "Would you like something to drink?"

He bends his head and touches his lips to hers, a feather-light touch that resonates through his body like the clanging of a bell. "No, thank you."

Her fingertips press into his shoulders, her exhalation of breath whispering over his mouth. "Something to eat?"

"Maybe later," he manages to say, then he's finally kissing her, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting her sigh of pleasure and relief and _yes_, the silent answer to his unspoken question. Her hands are on his chest now, cool fingertips brushing the skin at the V of his shirt, his hands sliding down to cup her demin-clad bottom and pull her against him and he's already hard and aching and he has no idea how he's still standing and breathing when every drop of blood seems to have rushed to one particular spot in his body. _So much for not rushing into scratching that itch,_ he thinks ruefully.

He feels her smile against his mouth, then her hands slide down his arms to tangle her fingers with his, leaning back to look him up and down. Her gaze drops to the overnight bag at his feet, and she nudges it with one perfectly manicured toe. "What have you got in there?"

He grins. "My toothbrush and a change of clothes." _And condoms_, he thinks but doesn't say. "I'm trying to be the kind of overnight guest who gets invited back."

"That's very considerate of you." She tilts her head, her lips pursing as she studies him, her hands etching lazy patterns on his chest. "My toothbrush is your toothbrush, but I draw the line at sharing my underwear."

"Is that right?" It's not the snappiest rebuttal he's ever uttered, but her nimble fingers are searching for the tiny clear buttons buried in the plaid of his shirt now, and his brain seems to have decided that formulating witty retorts isn't a priority at this particular point in time.

"Mmmm." Leaning forward, she kisses him, slow and deep, her mouth soft and slick and tasting of mint and coffee and everything he's dreamed for the last three weeks. "Come and sit down?"

A few minutes later, he briefly ponders the accuracy of the words _sitting down_ when they're actually lying down, then decides he has far better things to occupy his thoughts, if not his hands. Her couch is just as comfortable as he remembers, the feel of her in his arms just as intoxicating. She laughs as she fumbles with her own buttons, both of them clumsy in their haste, then her shirt is on the floor with his and he's kissing her smiling mouth as he palms the soft weight of her breasts, feeling the heat of her through silk and lace.

She arches into his touch, her hands darting behind her, then the silk and lace falls away and her rose-tipped breasts fill his hands, making his mouth go dry. "I've been dreaming about you," he tells her softly, and her eyes darken with a heat that makes his whole body tighten.

"Thank God for that," she quips shakily. "That makes me feel much less of a pervert."

Blood pounds in his ears as he watches her mouth form the last word. "Emma?"

She slides one thigh between his, almost making him flinch with anticipation. "Hmmm?"

"Bed?"

She smiles, a dark, impish smile that makes his cock twitch. "Here is fine."

_Bloody hell._ "Let me just get-"

She kisses him, her mouth hard and soft in the same breath, her hands gliding over his belt buckle and his zipper and she's touching him through his jeans and he struggles to hold onto his train of thought. His own hands are busy sliding into her unbuttoned jeans, finding more silk and lace and finally hot, slick flesh that clings to his palm as though it was made for his touch. She mutters against his lips, then presses her mouth against his throat, her teeth teasing his skin. "God, please, yes-"

What the hell had he been trying to say? Condom. Right. "Swan, wait, I have to get-"

"No, you don't." Her hands push impatiently at her jeans and underwear, finally kicking her legs and feet free until she's naked in his arms and he thinks his heart might actually stop if he lets himself look at her for longer than a few seconds at a time. Giving himself a mental shake, he frowns, trying to make sense of her words amidst the roar of his blood and the ache in his flesh.

"Why not?"

She stretches out beside him, her hands visibly shaking as she slips his belt from his jeans and hooks her fingers into his waistband. "I have other plans for you," she says, her smile mischievous, and everything clicks into place in his head.

"Ah." He wants to say more and he will, but right now his jeans and boxers are bagging around his thighs and he wants them gone more than he's ever wanted any piece of clothing gone.

They manage the task together, then there's nothing between them but skin and desire and sliding hands that cup and tease and _my God_ she's shifting down his body, her knees digging into the couch as she trails kisses down his chest and his stomach, her breasts brushing against his straining thighs. He remembers their first time and how he'd stopped her from doing precisely what she's about to do, and he can feel every hair on his body standing on end. She glances up at him, mischief dancing in her eyes, then she takes him into her mouth and he knows that nothing he has ever imagined while he was away from her could begin to compare to this reality.

His hands fist in her hair, his jaw clenching as he gives himself over to a world of sensation almost too pleasurable to bear, the slick heat of her mouth a joyous torment, her clever hands kneading and stroking and _Jesus_ he's almost there already and there's nothing he can do to stop it and he doesn't want to stop it. Time stretches and melts away as her tongue and lips and hands tease and coax and torture, and he doesn't know if it's ten minutes or ten seconds before he's coming hard, his spine arching, his hands tangling in her hair as the room blurs around him, his shout a strangled gasp of mindless pleasure as he's reduced to pounding blood and flesh.

Somewhere in the distance, he thinks he hears her laughing softly. "So, how was your flight?"

His breath still shuddering in his lungs, words are beyond him as he gropes blindly for her, finally finding her bare shoulders, his hands urging her back to him. But she's in no hurry, it seems. He feels the heat of her mouth on his still quivering stomach, her hair brushing over the tender flesh between his legs as she kisses her way back up his body. Finally she's stretched out beside him, looking more than a little pleased with herself, her face flushed, brilliant green eyes glittering.

When he can finally speak, it's hardly his most eloquent speech, but he can't find the energy to care. "That was quite the welcome home, love."

She blushes, and he suddenly realises there's a limit to her self-confidence on this subject. "Thank you."

He runs his hand up one smooth thigh, watching her face soften with pleasure as he touches her, his pulse spiking all over again when he cups the silky heat between her thighs. "However, I can't help feeling there's an imbalance that needs to be redressed." He curls his fingers into the slick warmth of her, the hitch of her breath like music to his ears. "Your turn, Swan."

* * *

Their secrets gradually emerge.

She tells him about Neal. He tells her about Milah.

There's a sense of relief in telling of both tales, he thinks, a sense of having gone through hell and come out the other side, burned and bruised, but still breathing.

Afterwards, they mockingly toast their former loves' collective poor judgment in letting such fine specimens slip through their fingers. Emma's liqueur collection is admittedly threadbare, but when he kisses her softly, she tastes of Amaretto and laughter and _hope_, and he starts to believe there is nothing that they can't conquer.

* * *

They fight, of course. Given her stubborn nature and his inability (or so she says) to admit when he's wrong, they fight all the time. They fight over little things (he is never discussing which Bond is better with her again, ever) and ridiculous things like fantasy football and whether couscous is pretentious - idiotic, pointless arguments that are fiercely fought and forgotten quickly. So, when The Fight happens, one Saturday morning two months into their relationship, it blindsides him completely.

They're at his apartment, finishing breakfast, newspapers strewn across his long wooden kitchen table. To his delight, Emma has embraced his love of print media, and each weekend morning contains at least an hour of no conversation and the rustling of newspapers, something that never fails to make him grin like a fool over his scrambled eggs.

The conversation of doom (as he later comes to think of it) begins innocently enough. "Hey, you haven't mentioned that boat you wanted to buy in ages," she murmurs, and he looks up to see her browsing through the classified section. "Did someone else beat you to the punch?"

"No, it's still for sale." Reaching across the table, he picks up her empty plate and stacks it on top of his own. "I just decided the time wasn't right."

She studies him over the top of the newspaper, and he has to fight the urge to fidget. Again, he's so very glad he'll never have to go up against her in court. "But you were so excited about it."

He smiles, pushing back his chair to collect their empty coffee mugs. "Well, my priorities changed."

"Me, you mean."

He looks at her. If she were smiling too, perhaps this exchange could be called romantic, but she's not smiling, and he's not sure why. "If you want to put it that way, yes."

Sitting back in her chair, she presses her hands flat on the classifieds and looks at him with an unreadable expression. If he had to put a name to it, he'd say _pained_, but that makes no sense. "So, for the last couple of years, your dream has been to buy an old boat and restore it to its former glory, then enjoy yourself on the water in your down time, just like you used to do with your brother."

He clunks the empty coffee mugs on the side of the sink, then turns back to face her. "That's right, but-"

She doesn't give him the chance to finish his sentence. "But now you've met me, so that dream isn't important to you anymore?"

Her tone is oddly accusatory, and something unsettled begins to churn in the pit of his stomach. "It's not as simple as that."

"You changed your tune pretty fast." She folds her arms across her chest.

He stares at her. She's angry with him for choosing her over renovating an old boat, and he can't begin to fathom why. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you met me, and suddenly you didn't care about something you'd wanted for years?" Her voice has changed, there's a hardness there that he's not sure he's ever heard before. "Your priorities changed pretty damned fast."

If he was confused before, now he feels like he's just stepped into an alternate universe. "I simply decided I'd rather spend my spare time with you, love, rather than scraping my knuckles raw doing a boat renovation."

She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape. "You shouldn't have given that dream up on my account."

Every instinct he has is flashing red for danger, but he can't believe she's mad at him, not over something like this. "Swan, what's wrong, what's upset you?"

She scowls down at their used dishes, then finally lifts her head, her gaze meeting his with an angry snap that almost has him reeling. "I told you that I wasn't good at this."

He blinks, struggling to keep up with a conversation that has stopped making sense. "And I keep telling you that particular claim of yours is nonsense." He means his words to be reassuring, but they only seem to make her angrier.

"_Don't_ do that," she grits out. "Don't tell me what I'm feeling is _nonsense_!"

Bloody hell. "That's _not _how I meant it." He holds up his hands in surrender, slowly inching closer to where she's standing, her hands gripping the back of the wooden chair so tightly that he can see the white of her knuckles. "Emma, what the devil is happening here? What's wrong, love?"

She looks at her hands, then at the floor, then finally she looks at him. "Thanks for breakfast, but I'm going home."

Turning her back on him, she starts moving about his apartment as though the devil is snapping at her heels. She's gathering up her things, he realises with dismay, and not just her overnight things. The book that's lived on his coffee table for weeks is now tucked under her arm, and when she comes back from the bathroom, she's carrying more than just her toothbrush. "You're running away," he finally says flatly, the words feeling thick and raw on his tongue, and she freezes.

She tosses her toiletries into her duffel bag, very carefully not meeting his eyes. "I just need some more time to myself."

"Now that _is_ nonsense." He moves to stand in her line of sight, willing her to look at him. "You can have more time to yourself anytime you want. We both can. That's the way we've always done this, you know that."

She stops, her head bowed, her hands clenched at her sides. His heart aches for her, his beautiful angry, lost girl. His chest tight with dread, he waits, not quite believing this is happening. "Yeah, well, maybe I want something different."

Her words are like an invisible hand on his chest, shoving him backwards, and the tight rein he's keeping on his temper starts to slip from his grasp. "I thought you were happy."

She shrugs, still not looking at him, and he gives up trying to keep a lid on his confusion, finally letting his anger slip through the cracks. "I'm sorry, did I miss something? Did the infamous Emma Swan relationship expiration date come up without me noticing?" His hands have balled into tight fists, and he shoves them into his pockets. "You know how bad I am with dates, love."

She glares at him, and he knows his words have hit their mark. "You really are incapable of taking anything seriously," she flings at him, and it's as though she's slapped him across the face, her words sharp and stinging. Picking up her duffle bag, she slings it over her shoulder, and he feels his heart drop to his toes, because she's leaving.

She's leaving _him_.

Panic makes his words trip over themselves in an effort to convince her to stay, but he doesn't touch her, because if he touches her and she pushes him away- "Emma, please, just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't." She's crying now, her mouth a tight, quivering line. "I'm sorry, I just-" She shakes her head, her beautiful face wet with tears he knows she won't let him dry. "I gotta go."

And just like that, she's gone, leaving him staring at the closed door. He could chase her down the stairs, down into the street, but right now, he's not sure his legs would cooperate. Five minutes ago, he'd been happier than he'd been in years, and now his life (and his fucking heart, it seems) is lying around him in bits and pieces, in as much disarray as the dirty breakfast dishes.

Dropping his head into his hands, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if that might stop the heavy sting of tears he can feel pressing behind his eyelids. "Fuck."

He's in love with her. He's fallen as hard as a man can fall, and just when he was thinking they were in the clear, a simple, innocent conversation has shown him that they were _anything_ but okay.

That night, he does something he hasn't done in months.

He gets drunk.

He gets the kind of sullen, slow-moving drunk that only comes when you imbibe the best part of a bottle of whiskey. He calls her cell phone after each new drink, swearing softly into his melting ice cubes each time it goes straight to voicemail. At midnight, when his texts and calls have gone painfully unanswered and unacknowledged, he staggers to bed, not bothering to turn off the lights in the rest of the apartment. His dreams, when he finally falls asleep, are filled with Emma's smiling face. When he wakes, his head is pounding, his mouth filled with sour cotton wool, and his heart filled anew with the memory of her walking out.

A hot shower, coffee and painkillers go some way to ease some of his symptoms, but nothing can ease the ache in his chest. Christ, even his throat hurts. Sitting down at his kitchen table, his hands wrapped around his third coffee, he slumps into the same seat he'd blissfully occupied right before Emma had ripped out his heart (and shown it to him before his legs had buckled beneath him) and tries to piece together exactly what the hell went wrong yesterday.

One thing is painfully clear. When he'd appeared to choose her over the boat, it had touched a nerve, triggered a reaction so raw and emotive that she hadn't been able to find it in her to hear him out. Instead she'd instantly retreated, putting a safe distance between herself and the source of her pain. Which, apparently, was _him_.

He rubs his gritty eyes, making the usual vague vow to never drink again, but honestly, his aching head is the least of his worries at the moment. If he didn't think she might call the police on him, he'd drive to Emma's apartment and camp outside her front door until she agreed to speak to him. He thinks of how she'd cried, shaking her head in despair as though the thought of trying to explain herself to him was beyond comprehension, and his heart twists into a neat little knot. Just before she'd started to cry, she'd looked at him as though she couldn't bear to breathe the same air as him.

It is, he thinks miserably, just the way she used to look at him.

She maintains her radio silence for the next week - one whole, excruciatingly long week, marginally made bearable by the fact that he's run into the ground with two new cases and the usual diplomatic forays required when ascertaining whether his clients are the ones lying through their collective teeth, or if he's actually acting on behalf of someone with some scruples for a change. He doesn't see her in the office at all, which is unusual, until he does some discreet digging and discovers that she and Katherine are in court this week.

He keeps texting her, of course, only once a day (he doesn't want to give up on her, on _them, _but neither does he wish to bombard her) and every time she doesn't reply, the crack in his heart widens. The irony would be amusing if it weren't so bloody painful. During business hours he can turn an impossibly convoluted situation into a smooth and – most importantly – legally binding transaction, and yet he has no idea how to start fixing the mess he's made of Emma Swan's feelings for him.

He's never missed his brother more.

If Liam were alive, he would doubtless deliver a swift clip to his younger brother's ear, then tell him to stop feeling sorry for himself and write the girl a heartfelt letter. Killian smiles at the thought (it still hurts his face). His brother had been determinedly old-school, and he has to admit, given that his emails and text messages have achieved nothing, the thought of a handwritten note slid beneath Emma's front door is starting to feel like a good idea.

On Friday afternoon, he finally cracks and calls her office extension. He hears the familiar click that means his call is being diverted to another destination, then a familiar voice answers. "Emma Swan's office, this is Holly."

_Bloody hell. _As if his life wasn't unsettled enough, now he has to make polite chitchat with his last pre-Emma sexual encounter. "Ah, good afternoon, Holly." He doesn't bother introducing himself – he knows she'll have already seen his name flash up on her phone screen. "I was trying to get in touch with Ms. Swan."

There's a brief pause, then the girl clears her throat. "She's out sick again."

He frowns. "Again?"

"Yes, she was out sick yesterday, too." There's another pause, more pointed this time. "I'm surprised _you_ didn't already know."

He closes his eyes. "Thank you, Holly, I appreciate it." He disconnects before she can reply, then finds himself staring at the silent telephone. If Emma's called in sick, then she's at home. And if she's at home – Taking a deep breath, he pulls a new legal notepad towards him, and reaches for his favourite fountain pen, the one that manages to make his scrawl look almost charming. "Wish me luck, Liam," he mutters under his breath, then he begins to write.

He leaves work dead on time for once, and at six o'clock he's sitting in his car outside her building (amazingly, he'd found a space in front) armed with a handwritten note, damp palms, churning stomach and restless feet. He feels like a blasted school boy, he thinks, and that's precisely the moment that he realises he's a fool, because there's no way he can get up to her front door to slip a note underneath it without her buzzing him up. Swearing under his breath, he gets out of the car, slamming the door. He's bloody well had enough of this stand-off, he decides, pressing the security button for her apartment so hard it's a wonder he doesn't break the damned thing. It takes a moment, but finally he hears her voice.

"Yes?"

His pulse quickens at the sound of her voice, and the thought of a smartarse answer doesn't even occur to him. "It's me."

Silence.

"Emma, please." _God, let him get this right_. "Can you at least explain to me how I screwed everything up?"

More silence, then he hears a loud sniff. The next sound, the sound of the buzzer being released, is the best thing he's heard in days.

She's not waiting when he reaches the top of the stairs, and she takes her time answering his knock, but finally her front door swings open. He's had six days to perfect his opening line, and yet when his eyes meet hers, all his words flee in the face of an overwhelming swell of relief. His heart lurching, it's all he can do choke out a greeting. "Swan, at last."

Her lips seem to tremble in the face of his relieved smile, then she turns on her heel, walking into her apartment, leaving him to follow in her wake. He quickly steps inside, shutting the front door firmly behind him. "They said you'd called in sick."

"That's right."

He's followed her into her kitchen, and she seems determined to keep him at a distance, constantly moving every time he takes another step. "Got a bad cold," she adds, and he belatedly notices the scratch in her voice and the pink tip of her nose. She's dressed in what he always thinks of (thought of?) as her gym gear, black exercise tights and a long sleeved purple t-shirt, although he doubts very much that she's been running today. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her face is pale, almost drawn, and she still won't look him in the eye.

God, he wants to hold her.

"I've missed you." His voice breaks on the last word, but he doesn't care. All he knows is that seeing her again, even after a few days, is like having the lights suddenly come back on after a power outage, startling in their brightness. "Can we talk? Please?"

She hesitates, staring out the small kitchen window as he holds his breath, then finally she gestures towards her kitchen table. "Have a seat."

A moment later, they're seated across from each other, and he's very careful to make sure his legs don't bump against hers. His heart is pounding, because this is it. This is his one chance to make this right, but first he needs to know what he actually did wrong.

She takes a deep breath, then obviously comes to some decision, because she starts talking without preamble, her gaze trained on where her linked hands are resting on the table. "I spent the first three years of my life with the Swan family. I barely remember them, but apparently I was very happy there."

He looks at the tight lines of her face, and tries very hard to hear everything she's not saying. "What happened when you were three?"

He sees her throat work as she swallows hard. "They had a baby of their own, and decided they couldn't cope with two children."

_Oh no. No, no. _"They sent you back."

"Yep." She drawls out the word, but it doesn't mask the pain in her voice. "Something new and shiny had come along, and I wasn't what they wanted anymore."

He stretches his hand across the table before he can catch himself. "Oh, Emma-"

She tightens her grip on her own hands, as if to stop herself from reaching for him. "You see, I've seen firsthand what happens when people lose interest in something they used to think they wanted more than anything." She looks up at him, her gaze clear and steady. "People have been disappointing me my whole life. Why should you be any different?"

He feels faintly sick, as though she's struck him. He slowly draws back his hand as the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. His plans for that boat. He'd pushed them aside when Emma had come into his life, which in itself wasn't a bad thing, but to her, it had meant something much more. Something much more sinister. If he'd pushed aside his dream of breathing life into an old boat so easily, perhaps there would come a day when_ she_ would be the dream he pushed aside. "Trust me, love, you are worth so much more to me than a few planks of wood and a sail."

Her mouth trembles with the ghost of a smile. "I kept telling you that I was no good at this sort of thing, and you thought I was joking." Her green eyes are glistening with tears, and he feels his own eyes start to burn. "I really wanted it to be different." She licks her lips nervously. "But I can't be with someone when all I'm doing is waiting for the other shoe to fall."

"It _would_ be different with us, Swan." His voice seems to burn in his throat. "It _was_ different."

She shakes her head, her dark lashes wet with tears. "I can't do it. Not to you."

They look at each other for a long moment, and in her eyes he sees the same resolve that's welling up inside him, and he knows he can't win this battle. He would willingly spend a lifetime helping her fight the demons from her past, but only if she wished it. And clearly, she does not.

Feeling as though a jarring step might just shatter his brittle bones, he slowly pushes back his chair and rises to his feet. As much as he's missed her, he can't stay here, not knowing how close he came to getting it exactly right for once, not when she's once again looking at him as though she wants to know all his secrets. "Will you do something for me?"

She sniffs loudly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and the wave of tenderness that washes over him has him clutching at the back of his chair. _God. _"Sure."

He pulls the folded letter out of his coat pocket, holding it out to her with a faintly trembling hand.

She eyes it warily, then takes it from his fingertips. "What's this?"

"A letter." He walks slowly around to her side of the table, feeling more weighed down by pointless, hopeless grief with every new step. "I was going to slide it under your door, but your security system had other ideas." Leaning down, he presses his lips to her forehead. Her skin is hot beneath his mouth, the familiar scent of her hair filling his nose, and he closes his eyes, committing her to memory. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to read it, if only to humour me."

He has to get out of here, he thinks. As so often happens in the presence of Emma Swan, he feels as though all the air has been sucked from his lungs.

He knows she's crying silently as he pulls the front door shut behind him. Later, the thought will cut him through like a rapier, but right now, though, all it makes him feel is empty.

Walking down the internal stairs and out to where his car is parked has never seemed to have taken so long. As he reaches his car, he dashes his eyes with an angry hand, awkwardly fishing out his keys with the other. God, what is he doing? How can he just walk away, knowing this is the end?

How can he not, knowing she's made her decision?

"Killian."

Just as he's finally found his car keys, Emma voice slices through the still late afternoon air. He leans against his car (there's that breathless feeling again) as she walks slowly up to him, shoving his letter practically under his nose. "Do you mean all this?"

At last, a straight question he can answer with a straight answer. "Every word of it."

Her eyes are red-rimmed as she glares at him, and absurdly, he notices that she's still wearing her little black house slippers. "You love me."

Again, it's a relief to able to smile at her, the truth laid bare between them. "Yes."

"You wished I could have met your brother," she darts a glance down at the words he knows by heart, her voice starting to wobble, "that he would have been so proud of you for picking someone who'd keep you in line."

He nods, his hands determinedly at his sides. "He would have loved you, too."

"You want to make a home with me," she whispers, her eyes glistening, her breath coming in long, shuddering exhalations now.

"Yes." He meets her gaze steadily, but his heart is pounding wildly. "You were, and you are, everything I've ever wanted."

When she rises up on her toes and kisses him, the shock of her touch rips through him like a firestorm. It seems like months, rather than days, and the feel of her mouth on his almost makes his knees buckle. "I'm so sorry," she tells him, her words thick with tears. "I'm so sorry." She kisses him again, pushing him clumsily back against the car. "I love you."

He sweeps her up into his arms, ushering her back towards her apartment, because this is not a conversation for the street. Once she's unlocked the front door, they're in her apartment in a heartbeat and he's kicking the door shut with his foot. As soon as they're inside, he eases her away, cupping her face in his hands, needing to hear her say the words again. "You love me."

She's still crying, but she's smiling, eyes gleaming like polished gems. "Yes."

He kisses her, tasting the salt of her tears, tasting the dark sweetness of her mouth, the feel of her breath stuttering against his tongue something he never thought he'd feel again. Finally, she puts her hands on his chest and gently pushes him away. "You'll catch my cold."

"I don't care." He kisses her again, harder this time, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her so tightly that her feet leave the ground. Which makes them a matching pair, he thinks dizzily as she winds her arms around his neck and whispers again that she loves him, because his feet might never touch the ground again.

* * *

He catches her cold.

He still doesn't care (it had been totally worth it) but it's not exactly his finest hour. At his pleading, she temporarily moves into his apartment, just to make it easier to monitor his man-flu (as she so delightfully puts it) and keep an eye on his calendar appointments for him.

She never moves out.

When her lease comes up for renewal, he helps her pack. She's loved her place, she explains cheerfully as she packs yet another box of books, but there's something about being close to the water that wins out every time.

Two months later, he buys the bloody boat. She jokingly suggests he renames it The Lady Swan. He tells her he'll think about it.

(he's already had the lettering designed)

* * *

Breathless, Emma ducks behind the closest mirrored column, and he quickly follows suit. "I hate this fucking game." She turns her head from side to side as though she's watching a tennis match, then starts out in exactly the wrong direction. "You'd think that they'd pick something else to torture us with, but no, same old thing as last year."

"Look on the bright side, Swan." He grabs her elbow, steering her away from both a dead end and yet another of their trigger happy colleagues. _She really was remarkably bad at laser tag_, he thinks with amusement, although he'd never tell her that. "At least we're on the same team this time."

"Right, because that's not distracting at all," she shoots back as his hand grazes the curve of her demin-clad arse.

He winds his arm around her waist, pulling her back hard against him, his mouth against her ear. "Come with me if you want to live."

She glances back at him, her eyes almost rolling out of her head. "That is the _worst_ Schwarzenegger impersonation I've ever heard – wait – where are we going?"

To his relief, he's remembered the layout of this wretched place correctly, and fifteen seconds later, he's pulling her after him into the familiar cramped, dark corner to which he owes so much. Pushing her gently up against the wall, he kisses her throat, tasting salt and perfume and the laugh that trembles through her. "We're hiding in plain sight, love."

"Silly me," she breathes, dropping her laser gun arm to her side as she pushes one long thigh between his. "I thought you were just seizing the chance to cop a feel."

"That too," he agrees unsteadily, his breath stuttering as she pushes her thigh harder against his groin. When he catches sight of her face, the devilry gleaming in those eyes, he knows that the tables have been well and truly turned. She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, her gaze dropping to linger on his mouth, then he feels her free hand on his belt buckle, then his zipper, and his blood makes a sudden and enthusiastic detour south. "Why, Ms Swan, I do believe you're finally coming around-"

The sound of laser tag 'certain death' reverberates around them, their vests glowing with matching red flashes. "And you're both toast," Katherine appears in the narrow gap, eyeing them with obvious amusement. "Dishonourably discharged too, by the looks of it," she adds with a wink that makes Killian wonder how much champagne she'd imbibed at the office beforehand.

She whisks herself away, a comically dramatic exit, and Emma starts to laugh. "Thank God," she exclaims, starting to undo the velcro of her laser vest. "Let's get out of this hellhole, sailor."

Sometimes he wishes he'd never bought that bloody boat, but this is not one of them. Her increased usage of nautical terms is, if he's completely honest, strangely erotic.

He helps her slip out of the vest, then curls his arm around her waist, putting his lips to her ear. "Buy you a drink, Swan?"

She laughs, her smile flashing purple white in the crazy fluorescent lights. "I've got a better idea, Jones." Tucking her arm through his, she starts to tug him out of their hiding place. "You can take me back to your place."

He grins. They may have been living together for several months, but he doesn't think the novelty of that particular joke will ever wear off. "Taking the team bonding mantra a little too far, don't you think, love?"

"I'm a team player." Turning, she shoves him back into the darkness, pinning him against the wall with her body. "And I'm prepared to do what I have to do in order to get ahead."

Her throat tastes of salt, her mouth like sin. He allows himself ten seconds of pure self-indulgence, his hands finding the delicious curve of her arse, slowly rocking his hips against hers until he's breathless with wanting her and her fingernails are sharp against his biceps. "In that case, Swan, perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere more comfortable."

He feels her grin against his neck, then the touch of her hand as it erringly finds his, her fingers threading tightly through his. "As you wish, Captain."


End file.
